"The things we love destroy us every time, lad. Remember that."

          I think some of us are still in disbelief about the election. Now it's over and done with, and we all have to deal with that. I hope President Trump does a good job and helps this country. I feel it would be irresponsible to hope otherwise. Also because I've read enough of the Bible to know what happens when a nation gets too uppity. Don't worry, my friend, I'm not going to treat this blog like every other jerk-off, vomiting up a think piece all over social media. I do try to be fancy and show some internettiquet. 

          So I had the Galaxy Note 7. You know, the one that started fucking exploding. I'll just put it out there for the haters that I'm an Android guy. I give iphone users (including my wife) a lot of shit. I have nothing against Apple, I had the iphone 3 and 4. I do it because sometimes it feels good to be an asshole, like a long stretch when you first wake up. Android has so many ways to customize the settings and the interface, by comparison, iOS just feels boring. Plus Apple puts too many restrictions on their users.

          I was a proud owner of the Galaxy Note 4 and 5, so when the Note 7 was announced, I was tickled in the part of my brain that gets horny for tech and Starwars. Over and over I was reading the specs online. Any leaked pics or video I would pour over like conspiracy theorists analyzing the Zapruder film. Or like that guy from Ancient Aliens with the Thundercat hair.

Thundercats! Hooooooooooo!

          All in all, the Note 7 was adding up to be an impressive piece of hahd-weah, and I couldn't wait to get my greasy hands on it. I ordered it through the internet, because the T-Mobile store was out and I felt like complaining to my family for two weeks until it arrived. I spent a week tweaking the settings and the look once I got it. This, to me, is the best part. I don't know why. I don't point out all of your quirks, so lets move on. I was just starting to get invested in the phone, emotionally, when I read the first report of a Note 7 exploding. I think it was in Korea. I dismissed it. It must be that poor twat's phone, no way this could turn into an epidemic.

          A hundred blown up phones later, we had an unprecedented recall of an entire phone model. "No worries!" assured Samsung, "We'll give you a new Note 7, for freeeeee!" Ok. Cool. Inconvenient, but it was either exchange it, or walk around with a device that at any moment, could turn into a serious case of hot-ball. 

Picture unrelated

          I like being a T-Mobile customer, their customer service is great over the phone, and I would advertise if they paid me. It's the store. Only in Walmart do you usually see such disdain for it's customers. I couldn't do this exchange over the phone, so I had to go to the one(!) retail store in my area that wasn't in a location best described as the earth's own bleeding hemorrhoid. I stepped through the door and figured I'd be out of there in a half an hour, tops. Oh, the joyful notions I entertain. The girl at the counter greeted me with the warmth of a frozen potato, and she had a concerning sore on her mouth. I explained my situation and began the exchange. Oh, and this was on my birthday. 

          T-Mobile policy at that time was to put the money I paid for the phone back on my card, then I would pay it back to them toward the new phone. Of course, no deposit that size is instant. I had just paid the rent, so of course I didn't have $800 fucking dollars. The girl said, "No way around it, unless you pay the money, we can't give you a phone." So their solution was basically just fuck you, pay me, like goddamn Goodfellas. I looked her right in her herpe and stated "You're ruining my birthday". I had to drive home in silence, no podcasts, no Spotify. Was I supposed to just listen to the radio, like some asshole? I'm above such peasantry. The end result is that I switched to the Galaxy S7 Edge and its awesome. Anti-climactic, I know.

"You used to call me on my cell phone

 Late night when you need my love" -- Drake

         

"I see what is right and approve, but I do what is wrong."

          I really enjoy living in Western North Carolina. Or the WNC as the tourism ads will say. I recently visited Florida (feat. Pitbull) and it made me love where I live even more. There's four pleasant seasons. The weather is nice and I love looking at the mountains. I've purchased apples right from the farm that grew them. But the WNC, and Asheville in particular, has a blight upon it's shiny surface. Fucking hipsters. This area is lousy with them. That annoying, too cool for school sub-class of humanity that has somehow gotten popular despite their supposed "non-conformist" view of the world. Everything they do is meant to draw some kind of attention, tho they pretend not to notice. Let's explore a few different species of the modern American hipster.
     
          The most common version one is likely to encounter is a gentleman with the following appearance (Most hipsters will be men because most women are above this bullshit): His hair will be shaved close on the sides and the back, and the top will always be gelled to the side. He'll have glasses and most likely not need them. Most prominently, is the stupid fucking beard. Who told these assholes that "homeless wizard" was a good look? They need to shave that ridiculous rug of chin pubes. This version is the most common of the PBR drinking, beard oil buying shitheads that make potentially cool and quirky businesses unapproachable because I don't want to wade through a sea of unwashed necks just to buy a bag of artisan cashews. Just thinking about these fake chucklefucks is irritating. But that's their whole point of existence right?

                                           

          The next type of hipster is a little less common, but no less pretentious and irritating. This is usually the kind of douchebag that will proudly sport a man-bun. The most prominent feature here is, not surprisingly, facial hair, meant to draw attention they'll pretend not to care about. In this case it's a handlebar mustache, but not the rugged biker kind. Think John Wilkes Booth, or Captain Hook. Yes it looks that stupid. This walking eugenics advertisement will wear Victorian clothes, but not in a cool steampunk way. More like the worn out props that a theater donates to a thrift store, which is then thrown away. He can be found in a Starbucks with a fucking typewriter. He won't buy anything because his precious taste buds can't be soiled by your peasant river water coffee. Instead a mug of horchata or some other nonsense will be on the table, and if you ask where he got it, the reply will be, "It's from a place on the other end of town. You haven't heard of it." Sometimes a rare specimen will combine the Captain Hook mustache with the homeless wizard beard to create an exclamation point of fuckery on his stupid hipster face.

          I mentioned before that most women are above this fad, but there is a type that is mostly female. Almost all of them will fit into this classification: White girl with dreadlocks. Most of us know some poor soul that thinks this look is not disgusting. Us no-rhythm-having cargo-shorts-wearing whiteys have no business wearing dreadlocks at all. We don't have the right kind of hair for it. Black people have great hair for this. They can actually clean and maintain a set of tight dreads and look cool. When I see one of these drum circle rejects haunting a local craft fair, I always wonder when they last bathed. Do they think it looks good? No white girl's appearance is enhanced by a nest of greasy dirt snakes on their head.














          I know I'm being an ignorant shit. So before you remind me that I'm closer to forty than twenty, and that time and fads change, I know that everyone deserves a chance to be who they are, and my ranting and raving, in the end, means nothing. So if you, Dear Reader, are offended by this blog, then you're probably one of the people I'm talking about. So get rid of those dreads and trim your fucking beard. That padded bra of manliness on your face makes you look like something I would wash dishes with. Maybe I'm jealous because when I try to grow a beard it just looks like a sad forest with only one tree per acre. But fuck it, you want to look like Robin Williams from Jumanji, or a schizophrenic Gandalf? Fine, enjoy your goddamn horchata.

"In December drinking horchata
 I'd look psychotic in a balaclava
 Winter's cold is too much to handle
 Pincher crabs that pinch at your sandals" --Vampire Weekend




*Memes pulled from quickmeme.com and memegenerator.net
         

"I've got a bad feeling about this."

          I've decided to reignite the barrel fire that was my old blog. We'll have some new ideas, new jokes, we'll mix in some ketchup and a can of beans and we'll make some hobo chili. You'll notice, since you followed the link, that I haven't posted here since 2012. I wasn't waiting for the world to end like the Mayans predicted (wrongly). Life happens. But I'll wait here if you want to go back and read the old ones. Really, it's ok. I'll just go heat up some taquitos and wait for you to finish. You're back? Good. As you can see, it's not all funny. There's some drama that creeps in there like kudzu vines, but I like to keep a lighthearted atmosphere. Closer to a stand up routine and farther from the atmosphere of a Trump colonoscopy. (They found his head! Ha Ha! And maybe a reason for his weird, tiny hands.) See I made a politics joke. That won't happen too often, mostly because I don't follow politics, I know I should, but I don't.
          I'll probably offend some people occasionally. The offensive jokes are usually the most hilarious, so they'll be sprinkled in like bacon bits on a word salad. Most of the time, I'll probably just be making fun of myself. I'll keep the comments active for now, but just keep it civil. You disagree with me and think I'm an asshole? Cool, let's talk about it. I'm not going to be mean just to be a shit head, so I hope you'll exhibit the same behavior. If I relay a story of yours (I'll give you credit for it), and it offends you, or is too personal, "Dude, I didn't appreciate you talking about my wandering testicle". (Sorry Danny), I can remove the content, unless it's really fucking funny.
          That's another thing; I'm going to curse a lot. I have small children and I can't curse at home. So you get to be my verbal dump bucket for anything profane I can come up with. Hopefully you'll have as much fun with this as I will. My blogs will usually be titled with a movie quote and end with a song lyric. Most things I write about will probably be heavily biased toward certain subjects, but it's my fucking blog, so deal with it. I'll do my best not to sound like every other doucheketeer with a whiny "Dear Diary" style blog.
          I won't gt too personal, but I'll deliver portions of my life in easy to digest, bite sized chunks. First spice rubbed, then pan seared. My father was a chef, so food is wrapped around most of my thoughts, like a snuggly blanket around a lil smokie. After I wrote that last sentence I zoned out and thought about lil smokie's four about four minutes. There's some brutal honesty for you. I'm hesitant to make a solid blog schedule. Life gets busy with a family and a full time job (not this). I'll try to post one once a week, maybe twice if I have time and you've had all your vegetables.

"It's close to midnight,
 And something evil's lurking in the dark.
 Under the moonlight,
 You see a sight that almost stops your heart" --Michael Jackson

"The Eaters of Light"

     Back in the 70's, the future that my parents looked forward to doesn't exist for me. I won't get social security, and retiring? Shit, I'll be working until they're shoveling dirt on my fucking head, degree or not. Reality is always ends up different than what we plan for. I would love to save fifty grand for my son's college and buy a house with a dog and a big yard with a shed to keep rusty tools and terrifying spiders in. But I've heard that announcing your plans is a good way to hear God laugh.
     Thirty years ago, the plan for success, I was told, was highschool, college, marriage, kids. In that order. The first half of your life was a miserable struggle, all to ensure that the second half would be just ok, or adequate. My generation was raised to believe that success equals happiness. I believe it should be, and can be, happiness equals success. We've made our lives so much more complicated, but the silver lining is that there are many ways to be happy now. Work is work. Someone might tell you, "do what you love, and it won't feel like work". I love reading books and playing video games, since no one will pay me to do those things, I think it's more accurate to say, "do what you like, and you'll be in a better mindset to improve the rest of your life, if it needs it". I like working on computers, so that career will be something i can show up to without it feeling like the job is draining the vitamins out of my body. I know every job has its bullshit, it can be long hours or a boss that's so far in your business they'll show up on your next MRI.
     My family's happiness is more important to me than anything. Anything. I would rather give them some comfort now, rather than try to deprive them of things so my 401k will be perfect when I'm 65. My father had a multitude of flaws, but if I can be half the father he was, I'll be alright. That's why the last thing I said to him before he died was, "Dad, I love you", and he deserved every one of my tears, and then some. Nothing is guaranteed, tho we as humans, and especially Americans, act as if we're entitled to a perfect, easy life. We forget about what's important. Instead we consume everything around us like a black hole until there is only darkness. We waste food, and whine about the government taking away our machine guns. And God forbid one of our precious gadgets breaks, then we're on the phone with customer service screaming into the receiver like we're calling them from the future. By the way, for my readers under 25, a receiver is the part of a payphone that you speak into, payphones still exist right?
     I hope I can teach Grayson, my still gestating son, the value of things. The value of family and friends and even the value of a dollar. I hope that I can teach him to learn from his mistakes and to know what's worth fighting for and what to get upset over, like when you get every answer right in Jeopardy and there's no one around to witness it. I even got the 17th century Russian literature question right in final jeopardy, dammit. When he's born, he'll settle after the trauma of birth and give me that look that all babies give to their parents. He'll have all the profound wisdom of the universe in his little eyes, and he'll look at me as if to say "Dad, soon I'll forget about all this as I get older, but I want you to know that it's going to be ok, and I love you". That's my boy.

     "With a little love,
      and some tenderness,
      we'll walk upon the water,
      we'll rise above the mess.
      With a little peace,
      and some harmony,
      we'll take the world together,
      we'll take them by the hand." --- Hootie and the Blowfish
    

Fantasy Football = Dungeons and Dragons for jocks

     I was at Valencia the other day, doing Valencia stuff. I was walking through the main thoroughfare, when I happened upon two gentleman wearing football jerseys (probably). I overheard part of their conversation, "Dude, these replacement refs are ruining my fantasy league". I stop to give them a raised eyebrow. One asks, "You play fantasy football?". Without even taking a breath I replied, "No, that's a stupid waste of time".
     That's when it hit me. Replace the word "player" with "character", "league" with "campaign", and replace the football itself with a +1 Loinhammer of Doom, and Fantasy Football becomes Dungeons and Dragons. Also called D&D, for the uninitiated. This cannot be allowed to happen. Growing up, the cool kids and jocks had everything; the hottest chicks, the early puberty and the popularity. D&D was the only way for the nerds and outcasts to feel powerful, or at least forget about their boobless middleschool years (this works for either gender).
     Now, the jocks are hitting their thirties, and just now realizing they're not now, nor will ever be, NFL stars. The cheerleaders they dated in high school wised up and left during the summer after graduation. The jocks are now settling for the first person to say yes, and working at walmart, changing my oil. Their lives are but a shadow's reflection of what they thought it would be.
     It's been proven over and over that nerds not only are the most successful high school archetype, but they've pretty much owned three quarters of the fucking galaxy since the eighties. I guess, secretly, this is our revenge, as a people. Nerds use their success to ridicule the failed jocks, just like George McFly used his to ridicule Biff Tannen in Back to the Future 2. That's our way of saying that intelligence trumps brute force everytime. Our decades too late comeback for all the ass kickings.
     But now, apparently with the tables turned, I've become the cool kid. How the fuck did that happen? And if there was any doubt about my newly discovered social status, the evidence was clear on the faces of the jersey guys in front of me. After my comment, they had such an ashamed, repulsed look on their faces that I actually felt kind of terrible about it. Imagine me, wearing nerdy glasses, khaki cargo shorts and an old X-Men t-shirt, blatantly making fun of two former "kool kidz", both of whom could easily throw me across the campus like a lawn dart, and thats it. They don't get up and ruin my scoundrelish good looks, they have no comeback. They do nothing, and I win.
     I mumble an apology and walk away like it never happened, pretending it's just the schizophrenia finally turning on me. Granted, I haven't played D&D in many years, having moved on to other mediums, (books, video games, etc.), but I still felt the need to defend an old nerd hobby. I understand there aren't many people whose lives have turned out exactly the way they've wanted, myself included, I've long ago had to give up my dream of being a dragon-slaying space pirate.
     Even if i were unhappy with my life (I'm not), I wouldn't bastardize someone else's hobby. I wouldn't turn bowling into something where you fire the ball from a catapult, over a castle's well defended parapets to knock the pins down... Actually that sounds fucking awesome. Maybe I'm onto something. Catabowling?

     "But it's just the price I pay
      Destiny is calling me
      Open up my eager eyes
     'Cause I'm Mr. Brightside"  --The Killers

"I speak in verses, prophecies and curses."

     The heat is oppressive. A tangible, malicious force pressing me further into the car seat. Even with the air conditioning on high, my clothes feel like an extra layer of moist skin. My sweltering, pregnant girlfriend is nearly panting, she keeps leaning forward as if proximity will make the air vents work better. She turns to me with tired eyes, "Babe, we really need to move out of Florida". I agree immediately. This is the moment that decides it. My mother had a similar moment when I was small. Tho, her aversion was to the cold and snow. I don't understand it. I vaguely recall the incident, my mother was driving my younger brother and I home from somewhere. The road was covered in snow, we ended up sliding into a ditch. That was when my mother decided she couldn't deal with another New York winter. 
     My moment was in my car, stuck at yet another red light. The drinks we had bought twenty minutes previously already warm. I'm waiting for my poor testicles to wither into prunes, or just explode like an egg in the microwave. You're welcome for that visual, dear Reader. How can anyone be comfortable in this weather? How can anyone enjoy being covered in sweat eleven months out of the year? Even worse is the bubble of humidity floating around me like Pigpen's dirt cloud. People really like this shit? 
     When I talk about leaving Florida, the first thing people say is always, "You'll be sorry when you're shoveling snow all day". Really? All day? I think not. I don't want to live on the north fucking pole, wrestling Santa's feral elves for the last scrap of caribou meat. I don't want to live on Pluto anymore than I want to live on Mercury. I'm thinking Virgina, or maybe one of the Carolinas. Somewhere with four seasons. Especially somewhere with a good autumn.
     You have know idea the mental/emotional high I get during a good autumn. The colors of the leaves, the crisp chill in the air. I can close my eyes and be there. I feel content, yet invincible in this place. I want to be outside, in some forgotten forest. That's why I read a lot of books that take place in a fantasy setting. That life seems so simple when you really think about it. That's my favorite part of those books, picturing the everyday life of the characters. Not the heroes, I don't want to have to fight a goddamn dragon or kill an evil wizard or something. Just live in peace. No internet, no cellphones, no television. Hunting food for my family. I talk a lot of shit, but the thought of skinning a deer makes me want to fucking puke. So my unlucky family would probably starve to death unless they learned some survival skills. I'm not exactly an outdoorsman. 
     I tell my girlfriend this stuff and she just says something like, "How did you go from talking about a hot car to fighting witches?" No babe, wizards and dragons, witches are just- "..." Nevermind. We tease each other a lot, but she puts up with my quirks, and lets me be me. Something I didn't realize was important until I met her. Not that she's without her own quirks, and at least her pregnant cravings are healthy(fruit), instead of unhealthy(soap). All I hear is every mother's curse, "I hope you have a kid that's just like you..."

  "Says it feels right this time
   Turned it 'round and found the right line
   Good day to be alive sir
   Good day to be alive he said.." --Metallica 

"You lose! Good day sir!"

     The Willy Wonka movie is not for children. It may look like it on the surface, but you have to look past the candy and all the orange little snookis running around to really get a taste of the dispair and hopelessness that this film represents. I am of course referring to the original movie featuring Gene Wilder, not the newer, lesser Johnny Depp version. No offense towrard Mr. Depp, I just didn't care for that version.
     The movie opens on some dilapidated slum where the modern iteration of peasants must toil and live amongst factories that just make smog, apparently. We see Charlie's family, poor, worn out, destitute. But also somewhat happy in eachother's company. But when the contest is announced, they, and indeed the whole world, perks up just for the chance to tour a fucking chocolate factory.
     In a world where the only entertainment adults have is watching their children become obese, all nations seem to join together, in a rare moment of unity, to find these elusive golden tickets. Maybe if we had offered the nazis the same chance, we could have avoided that little altercation back in the forties.
     As soon as Charlie's family hears about the contest they get so excited, the grandfather even telling him, "This could be your chance, Charlie". His family gets excited because they know his life is shit, and will always be shit. You can see it in the eyes of his suddenly non-parapalegic grandfather. This golden ticket is Charlie's only hope for a life not miserable.
     Of course the children that end up with the tickets represent the worse of humanity in its various forms, running the gamut from greed to sloth. These little shitheads are so rotten, the viewer cant help but hope for their gruesome demise. Thankfully you dont have to wait long before the viscious, near-sentient factory claims them one by one. All except for good Charlie, because the movie needs an underdog to root for.
     But even Charlie isn't immune to temptation, as he and Granpa Joe steal some of the bubbling, flying water. Maybe it was peer pressure, or maybe he just needed anything to take his mind off of the crushing weight of his own lack-luster future. He honestly felt bad about it, and kharma is almost instant when Granpa and Charlie both are almost cut to ribbons by the ventalation fan.
     After all is said and done, Charlie ends up with everything, the chocolate, the factory, and all the green haired little people he could ever want. His whole family is welcome to move in as well. What about his friends? Even if Charlie is a good person, he's only human and his hubris will get the best of him. "Oh you still live in a one room hovel with your entire family? I live in an amazing chocolate factory. No, don't touch my skin, you peasant. Have a gobstopper, on me", because in all of our secret heart-of-hearts, life is all about one-upping our family and friends, "My house is bigger than yours, because I'm better than you."
     Right there, after Charlie gets everything, is the underlying message of the movie finally brought to light, and its not that "dreams come true" garbage that Disney force feeds everyone. It's this: a life of hard work and determination gets you nothing but a life filled only with constant struggle and hopelessness, and only random chance or dumb luck can improve your situation. We all know that if Charlie had never found the ticket, he would have just stumbled thru his poverty stricken existence, living and dying as a have-not. Which reminds me, I need to buy lotto tickets.

     "Come with me,
      and you'll be,
      in a world
      of pure imagination"