Get Out Of My Cave

Since Nobody Reads This...

2011-05-04T12:04:00.001-07:00

I hate Lebron. Look at his face. You want to crown this asshat the NBA champion? I have to admit, if it comes down to it, I'm rooting for old man Kobe and the...puke...Lakers if they play the Heat. I cannot live in a world where this man succeeds. I hope he breaks both knees off like the T-1000 in Terminator 2. Anybody got a truck of liquid nitrogen?

Summer...

2011-05-01T11:17:00.000-07:00

Will summer fix everything? Nope. But it will provide a nicer backdrop for which to be frustrated.

Indie Feces

2011-04-27T16:49:00.000-07:00

I'll keep this short, party people. Just because a band records an album with nothing but boring down-strums, reverb, the production quality of a tin-can, and overly honest, trite lyrics, does not make them "organic" "hip" or "cutting edge". It means their studio equipment sucks, or they paid a lot of money to make their studio equipment sound like it sucks, and that they can't write complicated lyrics without sounding abstract and pretentious. Instead, they state the obvious and we crap our skinny jeans over how "honest" and "authentic" they sound.

Poo-poo on you, indie-wanna-bes. Poo-poo indeed.

A Christmas Story Without Cliche

2010-12-22T06:15:00.000-08:00

Aisle 13: Chimney Sweeping Logs and LED palm tress. Aisle 12, adjacent: Christmas trees and multi-colored light strands; special buy! 5.99, 300 ft. But I've seen those. They are green, as every other tree in the world. Variance of size and color, but categorically vanilla. Same. And this little palm tree (wouldn't Jesus have liked palm trees?) lights up so clearly, so beautifully its affixed vignette--two people, man, woman, jacuzzi, probably lovers, maybe estranged due to unwelcoming posture, "Feliz Navidad" illuminated upon the jacuzzi, Coronas, chilled and glued to hot-tub, and a warm, salty sea-breeze to dispel the old year--that I can't help but wonder if the scene isn't real. I close my eyes, make a Christmas wish: that if I could be there with them, by some Christmas miracle, that I would reconcile the estranged, plastic couple, and that they, grateful in return, would offer me beer, company. I touch the little palm tree; it is hot and burns my finger, which I put to my lips to assuage the pain. An old lady rolls past me with a shopping cart, selects red ornaments and white lights for her green tree (clairvoyance? No, probability. She's not a Corona girl; her tree will be immaculate, presents and fake presents intermingled to give the impression of depth, of fullness, cheer). She stops to look at the other scenes: nativities, shops and sleds and snow, icicles and warm interiors. She selects one with children upon a skating rink. Children dance on the ice as the words "Merry Christmas" follow Santa's sleigh into the sky. Jingle Bells plays over the store's intercom. I quickly push the boxed vignette--palm trees and lovers and Coronas and all--into my basket.

I came here for wall anchors. I'm hanging this neon Cubs sign above my fireplace. It will not be centered. I've drilled too many holes, and now I need the sign to cover them. I've got to be in the right mood for spackling, and I broke my putty knife opening foreign beers last Tuesday. I don't need a putty knife; what I need is a bottle opener. Aisle 8: they have one that looks like a wrench. Stainless steel! A great gift for dad! It goes in the cart.

Aisle 24: faucets, kitchen then bath. I have a dinner buddy named Herman. We used to eat crab out on the wharf. Small time thief. Made a good profit on some Delta faucets a few years back. They catch a nice price on Craigslist. With zero overhead and a 100% profit margin he had himself a lucrative business. Herman had a stroke last month. Lost partial movement on the right side of his body. Now people stare at him because his mouth sags. He used to be a real unassuming guy. You'd never notice him. But that part of his business model went with the stroke, what with people are rude and can't help but gawk at the handicapped. He got in an argument with a store manager over it one day. He'd been caught with a faucet and three rolls of duct tape crammed in his pants and swore to god that the only reason he got caught was because the checker (a pretty little thing) had been staring at him since he hobbled into the store. Discrimination, he called it. Police, they called. The cop, a portly man nearing retirement, caught Herman as he stumbled over a sewer grate. He had terrible scrapes. Police brutality. He got off on bond. Asked for the checker's number. Got picked up again. She's seventeen and her dad's a lawyer. Herman and I don't have dinner on the wharf anymore.

I moved to the Gulf Coast for some peace and quiet. I didn't want South Beach; the women there would never give me the time of day and I don't speak Spanish. Didn't want Orlando, either, what with Mickey Mouse and thirty-thousand tourists. No, Sarasota suits me just fine. A good place to retire early. White sands and white hair and a pace that suits my modus operandi. I sold insurance (never very much) and now I take temporary work (winter: post-office, spring: stocking department stores, summer: inventory, fall: my vacation). I'm currently on workman's compensation for a spill I took next to a derelict water fountain.

"We hate to see you go during the Christmas season," my boss had said. He was a heavyset man with worried eyes and an ugly tie that rested on his belly.

"I'd hate to see anyone else slip near that water fountain." "This is our busiest season."

"I just hope I'll keep occupied, what with needing six to seven weeks to recuperate."

"The mail will be stacked and in need of sorting." He looked as if he would cry. I walked away. I heard him mumbling: "So, so high."

And so my vacation would extend through the lovely Christmas season, the reason I'm now shopping on Wednesday, hunched over my cart, dizzy on muscle relaxants. I grab my wall anchors and some gorilla glue for my model cars (I've got this Stingray I'm working on...shale green, lovely rims, should finish it tonight during Letterman).

At the register is a woman my age, maybe fifty, fifty-three? I look down and realize my chest is exposed, er, more than usual. I pat down my beard. I button the top of my shirt. The button strains and the hula girls faces are elongated but I feel a bit more proper.

"You find everything, sweetie?" Her voice is a bit worn, but her eyes are nice, and she smells sweet. Papaya? Mango?

"Passion fruit?"

"Excuse me?" she says.

"Your scent. Would it be passion fruit?"

"Strawberry lemonade."

"As lovely."

"Thank you." She blushes. If I don't mess this up, I could have a date for...wedding ring. She sees that I see, holds her hand up, wiggles her fingers. "He's been dead for six years, bless his soul."

"So..."

"I'd love to," she says.

"Six thirty?"

"Seven."

"The pier."

"Catalino's." A bit pricey, but..."and I'll buy my own dinner," she says. "You just bring the company."

"I'll see you then."

"Sweetie?"

"Yes?"

"You need to pay for those items." I pull out a twenty, drop my wallet and hand her the money. She gives me my change. "Come back and see us."

"You too," I say. Dammit.

That night I sing to my shower radio and shampoo my scalp and whiskers. I condition them every other day because otherwise my face feels oily. I rub aftershave over my face and chest and put on my best gold necklace with the star of David (my ex is Jewish). I rub the steam off the mirror and comb the top of my head. There are a few hairs up there and they are quite soft, a point of attraction. I put on a blue blazer and a green and yellow hawaiian shirt and my best jeans. Gold bond in the white sneakers, and I'm read forty-five minutes early. I haven't been on a date in a while.

I use the time to straighten up, clean a few dishes of some much-crusted beefaroni. I turn on the palm-tree vignette and watch the jacuzzi lights glow. The lovers have reconciled their differences; maybe the store model was broken? The lights change from red to green to blue, as does my glowing reflection in the bay, kitchen window. I walk to the porch and open the screen door. I like the bay air and the sand. I need to catch my breath. My face is flushed. I haven't been on a date in a while.

I leave the door open to let the place air out while I'm gone. The neighbors are elderly and very nosey, and have on more than one occasion called the police on me for entering my own home through the back door. The Lesters are nice people, but they sleep less than vampires. If things go well tonight, I may have to explain myself at the mailbox. But that's only if she...wait, I forgot her name. What did her name-tag say? Oh hell, this is going to be a disaster. I haven't been on a date in a while.

In the garage I open a new box of air fresheners. Ocean Breeze. Redundant? Pastiche? Fair, but it smells better than chili-fries and motor oil. I throw some trash away from my car, vacuum her seat, and start the engine. I rifle through some cds: Billy Joel, The Stones, Journey...I take a risk on Floyd. Dark Side? No. We're going classy. A Momentary Lapse of Reason...yes, a sexy record by any measure. I haven't been on a date in a while.

I'm at the table fifteen minutes early. It's a nice table. I request a candlelit table near the window overlooking the water, and although the candle is fake and the light reflecting off the window prevents one from actually seeing the water, I find the ambience charming.

She arrives a few minutes late. Her hair is up, strawberry-blonde with a frosting of gray. She is wearing a lot of eye make up, but she looks nervous, excited, and beautiful in a flowing purple dress. The hostess points her to my table and she sees me and smiles. I smile back. Bigly. Word? Maybe not, but it describes the stupid look that spread across my face. A fat man and a donut. A dog and bone. Me and a woman. Big, dumb look. But she giggles.

I order us a bottle of red wine. I have a salad. She has the lasagna. I order another bottle of wine. Breadsticks, conversation, another bottle of wine. I've become a bit silly and will need a ride home. She agrees.

The night is comfortably chilly, and I place my blazer around her shoulders in the parking lot. She leans in close and gives me a kiss on the left cheek. When she parks in the driveway I offer her decaffeinated and possibly some warm and masculine company. She laughs and smiles and kisses me on the left cheek again.

"Thank you," she says. "Have a merry christmas."

"Will I see you again."

"It's likely."

I smile and hop out of the car a bit electrified, a bit intoxicated; I hit my head on the car door. She laughs again. I haven't been on a date in a while.

It's freaking sweet.

I unlock my door and she honks the horn. I turn to see her holding the blazer outside the window. I rumble (run/stumble) towards the car and take my coat. She motions with her finger, and I lower my left cheek for a third (three!) kiss. I throw my blazer over my shoulder with some bravado, and strut into the house where I immediately throw up in the bathroom.

I haven't had red wine in a while.

I flush the toilet and sit on the cold tile floor for a few minutes, try to catch my breath and focus my eyes. I wipe my mouth on a towel with an embroidered ace of spades and throw it in the hamper. I walk to the kitchen to make my hangover cocktail: three glasses of water, one two alka-seltzer tablets, one multi-vitamin, a piece of whole-wheat bread, and four Advil.

The house is cold with the back door open and the cold winter waters of the gulf washing up the beach. The door is closed half way when I hear a pathetic little noise. It could be the wind or any number of things, but something tells me to walk out on the beach a bit. What I don't realize is that it's very dark at night, and but for the moon, the black mass of water would be an extension of the night sky and the sound of waves. But the waves are not the only sound. A small, pathetic little whistle, or gurgle, or choking, echoes up the shoreline.

I think: oh god, it's a kid. Some party that's gone on too long and mom and dad have had too much to drink and some kid walked right out the door and onto the sand and into the water and holy hell he'll be dead in minutes and no one will ever, ever hear him. But it doesn't sound like a kid. It sounds like...a dog? Just past the breakers is a tiny little dog, spitting water and paddling and paddling and getting pulled straight out.

Without thinking I run into the water, jeans and all, and dive into the oncoming waves. He's about twenty yards out, but when I get to him I can't see him anymore. I dunk my head and open my eyes, which godalmighty stings like crazy. But there, in the moonlight bending underneath the water, is the little guy. He's swimming upward and not getting anywhere. I stroke downwards a few times and grab him under his front legs.

I don't remember swimming being this difficult. By the time I reach the sand I am exhausted. I fall on my knees on the shore and roll to my back. The little guy coughs and spits a few times, throws up on my arm, and then shakes the water off. He licks my face a couple times, and despite the vomit breath, it's kind of cute.

"What were you doing out there, little man?" I get a closer look at him. He's no breed I've seen. Pure mutt. Tangled fur, pointy little ears, and big-huge eyes. "Are you a fisherman?" He lays his head on my arm and sighs.

And it's all too much. I moved down here for some peace and quiet and me time, and all at once I've got a new roommate. What was I going to do? The fates washed the little fisherman up to my shore. I call him Hemingway, Hemi for short. I bring him into the house, give him a nice warm bath and shampoo and put a little drop of aftershave behind his ears. We sit in front of a box-fan for half an hour until he's dry. After I shut the fan off, he shakes the remaining ocean water onto my face and shirt.

I let him up onto the recliner with me, and the two of us watch A Muppets' Christmas Carol, trading spoonfuls of vienna sausages and mustard. We fall asleep in the recliner, both stretched with our arms in the air, warm and tired and furry in the face.

Baby Name Consternation; Good and Plenty

2010-07-21T11:01:00.000-07:00

Speaking of which, Good and Plenty are the nastiest candies ever. It's black licorice (sick) dressed up as Mike & Ikes (delicious). I made the mistake as a young boy of popping a handful of Good and Plenties into my mouth and then becoming ill. I spit a giant wad of them into my lap, dripping with slobber, only to reveal the true nature of Good and Plenty : they are black licorice, they are n
ot good, and though they may be plentiful, you may as well eat rocks (which are plentiful as well). If you can tell me which of these photos contains a disgusting candy, and which one contains prescription medication, I'll give you a box of Good 'N Plenty I recently took from a kid. The kid cried, but he'll understand when he's older...I did it for his own good. Someday he'll think back on the creepy guy who stole his candy and scolded him, and with a sigh and a feeling of gratefulness he'll think: "Thanks creepy guy in the Dickies work shirt. That candy really is nasty." No problem little guy; that's what I'm here for!

Now, a delicious candy would include anything with chocolate and peanut butter. This is a marriage that puts all other romance to shame. The sultry dance of the peanut butter as it is caressed by the smooth chocolate, well, it's a little too ambrosial to discuss. I'm blushing.

I can assure you: a faithful and thorough one.

But that is neither here nor there. What is here, and simultaneously there, is the second and final installment of The Latest and Greatest Baby Names of 2010! So buckle up and spit out your Good 'N Plenty, it's gonna get worse before it gets better.

FASTEST-RISING BOY'S NAMES
1. Castiel
2. Bentley
3. Eoin
4. Easton
5. Lucian
6. Aarav
7. Zion
8. St. John
9. Kaiden
10. Sterling
11. Callan
12. Leland
13. Harper
14. Mikah
15. Dashiell
16. Eliah
17. Dawson
18. Kayden
19. Lennon
20. Dorian

Alright, for those of you who missed the first installment, please read below. It was...enlightening. But I'm done picking on the poor girls with -ley at the end of 45% of the names chosen for 2010. I actually don't know if it's 45%, but I don't care to do accurate math either, which is wonderful when you try to explain to your wife how much something you've purchased truly costs, but you can play the "I'm a dumb English major that nearly failed Algebra II as my last math class during my Junior year of high school" card. Unfortunately, this didn't work for the Batman and Robin Dynamic Duo 2-Pack; they'll soon be returned to Wal-Mart to be purchased by some ungrateful, ignorant brat who thinks that Batman is actually Dick Grayson, or that he looks like this:

So draw the guy however you want, but the whole premise of the show was to give Batman some sidekicks from the DC Universe that aren't as recognizable. No, that's a great idea. Do you know why some characters are more recognizable? Because no kid wants to be Blue Beetle (I think you can tell which one he is) or The Green Arrow. They want to be Batman, Superman, The Green Lantern, The Flash, not this guy:

No, I take that back. That's exactly who I want to be when I grow up. What was I thinking? Weapon-X didn't actually fill Logan with adamantium, but instead, butter popcorn flavoring and twenty gallons of pure, unadulterated cool. (TO AVOID CRITICISM FROM NERDS LIKE MYSELF, I NEED TO HEREBY ACKNOWLEDGE THAT I AM FULLY AWARE THAT LOGAN, WOLVERINE, AGENT OF WEAPON-X, IS NOT A PART OF THE DC UNIVERSE, BUT RATHER THE MARVEL UNIVERSE. BUT COULD YOU PASS ON A PICTURE LIKE THAT? ME NEITHER, WHICH IS WHY I POSED LIKE THAT FOR THE CAMERA. I THINK I REALLY CAPTURED WOLVERINE'S INSATIABLE APPETITE FOR BRAWLING; WELL, AT LEAST HIS INSATIABLE APPETITE.)

But all of this is quite tangential. Let's stay on task here!

Boys:

1. Castiel: The trend for this precious one comes from an angel in the show Supernatural, which knows about as much about the spiritual world as Oak Park Mall. But the people on tv are pretty, and we want our kids to be pretty (however void of substance) and so we name them after fictional angels on an otherwise screwed up television drama. Names used to be thoughtful. Now we point and click to name our kids. No seriously, this could be great. You know that giant wheel on The Price is Right? What if we named all babies like that?

Sorry son, but your name gets to be Castiel. It's the only thing worse than spinning for 5.

This name could also be a product of the first generation of people with online avatars naming their children. No one wants their AIM name to be "Bob" when you could be "Azrael the Destroyer" or "Eviscerator" or "Hammersmashedface420" (btw, I haven't searched, but I'm willing to bet you these screen names are already taken. Bet you fifty bucks).

"So honey, I was thinking of naming our kids after your father and mother, or a biblical patriarch/matriarch."

"Yeah, but that lacks a certain pizazz."

"Pizazz?"

"Yeah, pizazz. Like Castiel, or Lord Azaroth."

"You're a piss-ant."

2. Bentley: This name again? This was on the girls' list. If you need further reason to never, ever name your child this, please scroll down and read my first post. Unless Bentley is going to be the greatest MC since 2pac, you don't get to give this name to your kid. Especially if Bentley is someday going to cut the muffler off his Honda Civic and wear visors backwards and upside down. There are too many Sig Eps out there already. We don't need to add to the growing douchery.

3. Eoin: Seriously, wtf? This is what my name sounds like when you say it like you can't say your "Rs". Aaowin. Eoin. It reminds me of loin.

This is your kid, shortly before being roasted in a lemon-rosemary glaze. I hate you, and so will he/she.

4. Easton: Represent. Weston? Northton? Southton? Cardinal directions don't get to be names of anything other than directions. Why? Because they sound stupid as names. Imagine a Sergeant at Normandy calling off a list of names:

"Buck?"

"Here Sarge."

"Ace?"

"Ready for duty, Sarge."

"Hal?"

"Let's kick some Nazi testicles, Sarge."

"Easton?"

"Ready and accessorized, Sergeant!"

"Who the hell are you?"

"I'm the squad's fashion adviser."

"Our what?"

"Fashion adviser. Can't kill Nazis in mismatched socks, you silly Sarge!"

It wouldn't happen. You know why? Because the generation with names like Tad and Easton will never be able to beat the Nazis, Zombies, Robots, or Aliens. We've screwed ourselves defenseless. We should have just named all our boys Cindy or Shirley. Hey, why not? Half the names appear on both the girls' and boys' lists.

5. Lucian: You have got to be joking. You're the king of Werewolves? Seriously? Do you go to Dragoncon, too?

Sure, he looks cool as a werewolf, but you're not a werewolf, and you'll never be one. But don't worry kid! I'll tell you what you will be: a defenseless loser who gets his head slammed into the dirt of the playground. Get ready to eat wood-chips kid! You're going to be an all-star wimp with butt-zits.

If you're going to name your kid this, just get them a Metallica t-shirt and teach them how to play D&D, because they're hopeless from the start. I hope you have a lifetime supply of diapers and Clearasil, because little Lucian's going to need them well into his thirties.

You know what lycanthropes do? Take pictures of themselves alone in the bathroom. And polish their foreheads to reflect moonlight.

6. Aarav: I don't really know what to say about this one. I can't even think of a single negative thing to say about this name. It starts out strong with two "As" and then an "R", but after that it loses me. Wait! This would've been the one asshole kid who beat me out for line-leader in elementary school! I think some parents are alphabetically bitter at all the cool kids named "Aaron" because at one point they had to stand behind an Aaron in line, even with names like Andy or Alex. Ha ha ha. This was my one joy in school, watching the class douche-wad jump up and down like an idiot dog when he thought he was going to be first in line. His name was Andy. I let him jump for joy, and then smirked my way to the front of the line where he attempted to argue that Andy came before Aaron alphabetically. Suck it you Umbro wearing rot-bag. I win. And I'm taller than you. And you suck at soccer. And in general, I hate you.

7. Zion: Okay, unless you're Jewish (in which case you would never name your child this) you don't get to name your kid Zion. Seriously? I can't even fathom how this gets to be a name. Seriously. This is a name given to kids (who are not Jewish in the slightest) by over-zealous Christian parents who listen to this kind of music.

I'm really glad that Jesus taught him how to "turn his cheek when people laugh at him" because I'm doing a whole lot of laughing, and this dude is running out of cheeks. And seriously, this was probably made in 2005 by some poor little church that got a camcorder and is trying to reach the "youth" of the nation. Oh so very sad.

8. St. John: If you put the word "Saint" into your kid's name, you're asking for a holy-living terror. I guarantee you this kid is going to eat the pet parakeet and then blame it on his sister by putting bloody feathers on her bedspread.

And you know what? I can't do this anymore. I have made fun of exactly twenty-eight names, which to me, is a success. I'm running out of steam on this one. Sorry folks! Stupid names are just that: stupid. And there's only so much stupidity that I can wallow in without throwing up. So I'm gon' go puke.

Apocalypse Now: The Fastest Rising Baby Names of 2010

2010-07-20T13:11:00.002-07:00

Alright party-people, the party's over. Take care of your eternal business, because it's all ending soon. Do you want to know why? Because soon we'll have a sizable population of people named "Sookie". Don't believe me? Here are the fastest rising baby names of 2010:

FASTEST-RISING GIRL'S NAMES
1. Tenley
2. Harper
3. Everleigh
4. Martina
5. Sookie
6. Navi
7. Charlotte
8. Eloise
9. Lorelai
10. Ursula
11. Briella
12. Kinley
13. Tinsley
14. Mhairi
15. Leighton
16. Maelle
17. Ever
18. Kinsley
19. Lux
20. Everly

FASTEST-RISING BOY'S NAMES
1. Castiel
2. Bentley
3. Eoin
4. Easton
5. Lucian
6. Aarav
7. Zion
8. St. John
9. Kaiden
10. Sterling
11. Callan
12. Leland
13. Harper
14. Mikah
15. Dashiell
16. Eliah
17. Dawson
18. Kayden
19. Lennon
20. Dorian

And because I care, I'm going to analyze these one by one to illustrate why and how the apocalypse is going to consume us all, with no help from anyone named after one of the names on the list, because someone named "Harper" is going to be exactly ZERO help when the zombies come flooding out of hell to eat your brains. Or when the Chinese invade. Or when we desperately need a cure to a cripplingly infectious disease. Or when we need smarter crops or water purification. Or really when we need anything that requires some sort of cojones. Pardon me if I'm not trusting my life to someone named Eliah.

"Wait, what's your name?"

"Eliah."

"Leah?"

"Nah bro, Eliah."

"And you're a dude."

"Yeah bro."

"But your name sounds like Leah."

"Maybe."

"So it's like Elijah minus the cojones."

"What are ka-joan-eez, bro?"

"Go bury yourself."

"Sweet bro."

See what I mean? We're screwed.

But hopefully this can all be prevented. I figure if the people who read my blog each tell two people that at least four people might hear about this in time to prevent the wuss monstrosity that will me the next generation. For now, listen...and pray...

Girls:

1. Tenley: Here are my theories on this name. First: people like the suffix -ley on any name now, male or female. And for the record, the only time this suffix has ever been cool is on the name Bentley.
Nice. See what I mean? That's something that can have a stupid -ley on the end and still have cojones (I'm now in a race with myself to see how often I can type the word cojones and still have you take me seriously--oh wait, you don't. Then let the cojones fly! <---see, it's perfect!). I'm willing to bet you that a couple who looks like the two pictured at the right
sat down at wrote out a list of their favorite numbers:

"I dunno, Tad, I think that six is cute."

"Nah Kinley, I like fourteen."

"Well, our marriage book says to compromise."

"Like we did with my wearing your underwear?"

"Yes, Taddy, exactly like you wearing my underwear."

"Compromising is tight!"

"Well then, let's go with Ten."

"Yeah, ten was like my lacrosse number at Duke."

"And Ten starts with a T too, Taddy!"

"Oh, so she'll like, in a way, be named after me? I'd cry if crying wasn't for gaywads."

"I'd cry if I didn't have botox."

Hence Tenley.

2. Harper: This name appears on both lists. Now I can't exactly speak against androgynous names, being that mine could be both, but at least it's spelled differently. Harper is exactly the same, no matter what. But this could be funny for as long as they're small, say infant to seven or eight. What you do is make your kid like Pat and dress them in light green clothing and buy them toys that both boys and girls will enjoy
so that absolutely no one will know what little Harper's working with downstairs. Then, out of sheer frustration, people will start calling your kid "it" and will immediately feel awful for referring to your kid with a pronoun that is synonymous with a beast or inanimate object. If you're up for turning your kid into a lifelong practical joke, please name "it" Harper.

3. Everleigh: Seriously, what the crap kind of name is this? This is another one that goes one of two ways: 1. I play too much Everquest and named my kid after the evergreen glade in which my elf grew from an elfling into a mighty warrior king, or 2. I want to be inventive and still use the stupid -ley suffix, because they're pronounced the damn same. You're still not cool. All the name means in the latter case is that your kid has an infinite amount of that same stupid suffix. Want an alternate choice? Name your kid "Infinitelystupid". It has a nice ring to it.

4. Martina: Okay, Tina already sounded too much like Tuna, and while said fish may be delicious, it's a terrible name for a little girl.
Tina is the equivalent of saying, "Hey, this is my little girl, and her name is Trout. Ain't she gorgeous?" Add Mar to the equation, and you've got marred Tuna. You've named your daughter after a slaughtered, besmirched fish. Best of luck to this kid growing up.

5. Sookie: Hahahahaha...this used to mean something very specific in the '60's. But parents today don't know this, or they're entirely cruel. Steppenwolf knew what sookie meant, and then they wrote this awesome song about it:

Do these people look innocently childish? Uh-uh. Nope. They look like they're after one thing, and that's some Sookie, or in this case, your daughter. Want hippies from the '60's chasing easy love from your kid? Didn't think so. Think before you name. On a side-note, Jesse Jackson dances to Steppenwolf at the 1:54 mark. So cool.

(I get why people really name their kids Sookie: that stupid vampire pseudo-porn "True Blood." But do you really want to name your kid after a promiscuous vampire floozy? If you do, you're an idiot and this blog is above your reading level. Go kick a rattlesnake--their bites are even more exciting than vampires'!).

6. Navi: like navigation, or Navi: the world's number one Michael Jackson impersonator:

Or the overgrown vampire smurfs from that James Cameron movie that wasn't as cool as T2:

Good choice. This kid's survival rate on the playground: 1 in 100, or the equivalent of me surviving a week without air conditioning and an Xbox.

7. Charlotte: I'm okay with this one, surprisingly. Lot's of good has come out of this name, like Charlotte's web, and that one chick from Sex In The City (I think; who am I kidding, know), or these lovely offenders who are the featured offenders of the month:

So Charlotte's got spiders, harlots (which rhymes, btw) and the city of Charlotte's most wanted. There really is no reason not to name a little girl (or boy, if you're a bohemian wannabe yuppie) Charlotte.

8. Eloise: This name screams "I died in 1929." Enough said.

9. Lorelai: I don't even know how to say this one. Laura-Lie? Lore-Lie? Lore-Eee-Lay? If you can't pronounce it one of two ways, it's stupid. It also sounds like something an Irish folk singer would scat, like Too-Rah-Loo-Rah-Lorelai. Okay, I just almost talked myself into this one...

10. Ursula: ARE YOU EFFING SERIOUS??? Let me help you with this one:

Uh, yeah, it's that hideous, fat b@+&h with the eels that tried to kill Ariel. If there has ever been an uglier drawing, I haven't found it. Seriously. She's disgusting with a case of mole-face and tentacle butt. But by all means, don't let that sway you from ruining your little girl's life forever. I'm sure she'll be real popular with her mustache and broad shoulders. To be fair, typing "Ursula" into the Google image search also brings up this picture an equal amount of the time:

So if your little girl grows up to be a Bond girl, my sons Beowulf, Achilles, and Batman would love to meet her.

11. Briella: Hey, pass me your kid; it's raining and I don't want my hair to get wet.

12: Kinley: IT'S RETURN OF THE -LEY!!! STOP IT! STOP IT NOW! YOU CAN'T JUST PICK TWO CONSONANTS SURROUNDING A VOWEL AND PUT IT IN FRONT OF -LEY! IT'S STILL NOT A NAME, DAMMIT!

13: Tinsley: Okay, four consonants and -ley. Very clever. Here are some other -ley names I just pulled out of my butt:

Elmsley, Festerley, Rotley, Buttley, Crapley, Fartley, Infectedley, Prostateley, Boogerley, Hairley, Blisterley, Aidsley...I rest my case...but wait! There is one great -ley name:

MUTLEY!

14. Mhairi: Like, "No, sorry, I can't go to the pool, Mhairi and I haven't had my back waxed." Do you really want to name your child I'm Hairy? Okay, here's one: Msmelley. See? I even included the -ley for all you idiot fartholes out there.

15. Leighton: I give up. Just name your kid EverLeightonleyshiresquidballs. It's attractive.

16. Maelle: Names with two vowels next to each other are stupid. Like Aaron. What moron is named that? This name sounds like a toddler trying to say Michael. Maybe this was the name a toddler chose for his/her younger sibling, before becoming completely verbal?

17. Ever: As in, don't name your kid this. Ever. Or the mockery endured by your child will be ever-presently everlasting. Forever. Whenever. Whatever.

18. Kinsley: A cute mutation of Kinley and Tinsley, but we haven't been fooled, your kid still has a crappy name. If I meet your kid, I'm calling her Bob.

19. Lux: This is for a girl? I picture a giant bull dog that hasn't been neutered slobbering on the furniture, or a pseudonym for a rapper named De-Lux. Both are cool, but for a girl? I dunno.

But both exist!

Sammy Deluxe: And your baby Lux, whichever it is:

20: Everly: The -ly suffix returns, cleverly. Haha...what a great spot to end on!

That does it for the girls. Tune in next time for the lukewarm milquetoasts that are the boys of 2010!

You Know What's Awesome?

2010-07-19T15:43:00.001-07:00

THIS:

But better yet, it has a story!

Characters: Me, Batman and Robin 2 Pack, Toothless Walmart Checker
Setting: 2 A.M., Walmart Toy Department
Context: On an emergency search for water balloons for my wife's summer school. On a side note, the water balloons strongly resembled a certain form of contraception when filled, which greatly embarrassed my wife in front of a male coworker. I know it seems suspicious, especially given my track record of inappropriate humor, but I swear that this was just a funny side-effect of buying the brightest colored balloons I could find; empirically speaking, there's really no way to prove that my knowledge of the shape of the balloons when filled predates my purchasing the balloons, since the balloons were packaged and sealed. But would I buy them again? You bet your life I would.

Continuing with our story, I am in the Walmart toy department at 2 a.m., which may be creepy in and of itself, but I can't decide if it's truly creepier to be in the toy department when there's no kids at 2 a.m., or if it's creepier to be there when it's packed with kids during the day. Perhaps they are both uniquely and distinctly creepy. The former is creepy in an "I don't cut my nails and I live with my parents and play Dungeons and Dragons when I'm not LARPing or playing Xbox games featuring fighting game characters in swimsuits" sort of way. The latter is creepy for obvious reasons.

But I am neither of these people. I have a nice job, a home, a wife, and 2 dogs. I might even reproduce! *Giant Gong Noise*

I was just buying water balloons. There's my alibi. Until I saw the Dynamic Duo 2 pack.

Before I even tell you how much it cost, let me first say that I haven't bought an action figure in at least eight years. Yes, I know, that puts me at 20 at the last purchase of a plastic superhero toy, but let's put this in perspective: when I was 20, I was also hitting my friends in the privates for entertainment, listening to Snoop Dog at 2 a.m. and chugging Red Bull to cram for finals, and wearing a thong and Werewolf mask as I shot giant Nerf missiles at my friends (go figure) privates. I mean, come on! Two out of four of my activities involve striking my friends' privates for cheap laughs! An action figure is comparably normal.

All of this is to say: when I last bought an action figure, it was like seven bucks, which is WAY more than they used to be, which was around five bucks. Let me also preface this by saying that usually, the action figure selection is pretty lame. Here's one of the figures I've seen recently:

I mean freaking Booster Gold??? Really??? Yes please, I'll take the worst superhero of all time, who, essentially has Space Ghost's powers minus the redemptive and reinvented comedy show on Adult Swim. So it's pretty much like "Hey, I'm Booster Gold, I suck."

But behind Booster Gold was not the Black Manta or The Wonder Twins (although the Wonder Twins would be awesome for sheer comedic value) but the DYNAMIC DUO. That's right folks: the Real Batman and the Real Robin. And all the people said? Amen, or booyeah, since this is like twice as exciting as church, and church would be twice as exciting if we all said booyeah instead of amen. I mean they're kind of the same thing. Amen means "let it be", and booyeah means, like, "let it be" only really hard and extreme like Mountain Dew, or "I just dunked on you, go back to summer league, chump". And if we did the Arsenio Hall fist twirling thing when worship got real excited, well, you'd have a church that Fox could sell. If you remember Arsenio, can I get an amen? A booyeah?

WAIT! Epiphany: Arsenio played that awesome gospel preacher in "Coming to America". He hosted Miss Black America. Why not make him the pastor of this Fox-sponsored mega-church? I'm telling you, I'm on to something.

Just kidding...

So I scream booyeah in Walmart at 2 a.m., which didn't frighten any children because there weren't any, and the zombies who work there overnight are undeterred by loud noises (though I did get a few empty stares that screamed "I crave brains!").

But the pack doesn't have a price and neither did the shelf. So I assume, foolishly, that the duo pack costs 14 dollars by looking at the nearest tag, and I'm like: "WHOA! 14 dollars is absurd!" But for two figures, well, it adjusts for inflation since I last bought a figure, so seven dollars for Batman and seven for Robin (really like twelve for Bats and two for the boy-hostage) is a steal!

To quote the Joker: Heh.

When I get to the register with the neon, glow in the dark contraceptive water balloons, and the action figure pack (and 72 rolls of much needed butt wipe) I looked a bit strange, even for a late night Walmart customer. So I threw a pack of gum on the counter like it'd make me look more normal. "Um, yeah, the uh, gum and toilet paper and balloons and action figure pack will be all I'm needing, thanks. Yes I found everything I was looking for...oh and so much more, Candace! Thanks for asking!"

But Candace didn't ask my name. She just beeped my items over the lasers with her mouth half open and her eyes looking different directions. That's what fluorescent lights and everyday low prices do to you after prolonged exposure: they ZOMIBFY you! If zombify isn't a verb, it totally should be.

So Candace drags the gigantic toilet paper pack across the beams, then the balloons and gum, and the total is like 12 bucks or something because I need lots of toilet paper and the jumbo pack is expensive. Then she drags the Dynamic Duo across, and a number flashes that's not fourteen. No friends, the number that flashes is twenty-nine! Do the math party-people, that's 14.50 a figure. Batman's worth it, but at this point, I was ready to kill Robin. If it hadn't have been Tim Drake, I would've taken it back. I'm not paying that kind of money for Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, or Carrie Kelly (I'd actually pay more for Carrie).

To clear up the confusion caused by the last two sentences, read here.

My wife was asleep while all of this happened, otherwise I'd have taken it back to the shelf immediately (to clear things up, she was asleep at HOME, not at Walmart. I'd never let her go to sleep at Walmart: everyone knows the aisle goblins eat your kidneys once the fluorescent lights lull you to sleep).

I walked from the store completely stunned. It was like someone in a werewolf mask and a man-thong had just shot me in the privates with a Nerf bazooka. I had a case of profound sadness, like these guys:

Nonetheless, my wife has been gracious and has not made me take the dynamic duo back. With all fairness, I am decorating my basement with Batman stuff, because hey, why wouldn't you decorate with Batman stuff when Batman stuff exists? If you lived in another universe with no Batman, well, I guess your basement would be boring like church or math.

Again, just kidding. Except not about Math. Math sucks.

But Batman rules. Want proof? Here's what happens to people that pay that much for Batman crap.

I hope my parents have room in their newly re-finished basement.

Like Juelz Santana, I'm Back

2010-07-15T13:06:00.000-07:00

Exactly three suburbanites understand the post title. And just by posting that title, I feel like I've created irony between post title and blog title. And if you're grown up and you listen to Juelz Santana: stop it. Maybe. I will if you will. Okay, I can't either.

So, new theme, new ideas. I decided that it would be better to have a grownup blog that nobody reads rather than a juvenile blog that nobody reads. Either way, these words will most likely be lost in narcissistic cyberspace.

But I swear that this blog will be half-relevant and family friendly!

Conversation with myself, since that's what blogging is:

"But I swear that this blog will be half-relevant and family friendly!"

"Come now, Aaron. We've heard this before. We said this to ourselves the last time."

"I can change!"

"How many times have we changed in the past year?"

"Lots."

"Name three."

"Well, we resolved to be nice."

"How's that working out?"

"Fine if you'd stop asking stupid questions."

"That's one."

"Shut up."

"And?"

"Okay...well...I started eating healthier."

"And did we continue eating healthier?"

"Oh #$%^*, my Wendy's cup is leaking on the keyboard."

"And three?"

"And three...um. What's that over there?!"

"Where?"

*Gunfire* *Choking* *Gurgling*

"I resolved to be more honest with myself."

Side note: this conversation with myself takes place with this epic hip-hop beat, followed by a training montage of me practicing my hoops skills on an inner-city asphalt court with chain nets, shortly after being told I no longer have any street cred because I won't join the local gang in which my best friend is precariously involved.

My Blog Looks Like a Strip-Club!

2009-03-07T16:31:00.000-08:00

In an attempt to gain a wider readership, I've decided that I really want my blog to resemble the outer facade of a strip-club. I have no interest in strip-clubs beyond their universally tacky exteriors. Whatever your opinion of strip-clubs and their patrons, you must admit that they do catch the eye. Hence the simulacrum. Eye-catching = readership, forging a modern-American blogging future for the Schwartz-man.

Today I think I'll write about nostalgia because it's bugging me.

Actually, I'll do that later.

Zombies are overrunning the world.

This ends now!

The Bat-Chelor Party

2008-05-23T09:32:00.000-07:00

I decided to actually make my blog useful, since only five or so people read it about once every three months. It is now the official site of my bachelor party. Here's the details, as well as your individual identities/invitations. Thursday, May 29th, we're meeting in the Legacy Christian Church parking lot at 4:30. Legacy (for those not attending the rehearsal) is at 101st and Antioch in the JOCO. Really easy to find, no big deal. We'll then proceed to heaven: Kauffman Stadium, where we will eat unlimited hot dogs, nachos, peanuts, and soda. The idea here is to be completely and utterly bloated before leaving the stadium...except for Sam, he's fat enough already. Without further ado, here are your invites/personalities that I created.

Aaron Schwartz: aka "Cutthroat"
The most vicious pirate on the seven seas!
He likes parrots and planks
And long island iced-teas!
He is daring and dashing
With a beard like a goat
And he'll steal all your women
And slit all of your throats!

Chris Foster: "The Nasty Fawn"
If you run into "The Nasty"
Do not laugh and don't sneer,
Though his face is misshapen
and his fur reeks of beer.
If you're downwind from him
close your mouth and beware
for there's worse things than stains
on this fawn's underwear!

Sam Vanbuskirk: "The Holy Crusader"
If you meet Sam the Holy
please cover your face,
to avoid being burned
by his virtue and grace.
And if Sam turns around
please beware the full-moon
that will shortly be rising
with a cry of "BABOON!"

The Don: "Green Lantern"
He's ripe and he's old,
and he's still wearing tights,
and he'll bite and he'll pinch you
if it comes to a fight.
He's known as "The Don"
and he knows not a stranger
and he fears no offense,
no wife, and no danger.

Matt Anderson: "Voodoo Chile"
Matt hails from Jamaica
leaving fear in his wake
though he can't spell "banana"
and his accent is fake.
And we say that he's metro
which makes his brow furrow
and he replies in his "accent":
'Guys I swear I look Euro.'

Eric Simon: "The Ranger"
We knew Eric as "floor-guy"
the Lord of the hunt,
the bowman of yore
on the Western front.
Then he grew a beard
the most beautiful fur
that made all lesser men jealous
and their damsels did purr.
ESIMON RULES! (thought this doesn't rhyme).

Chris Ploetz: "The Short Yet Barbarous Skull-Eater"

Chris Ploetz is not tall
but what he lacks in height
he adjusts for with a boom
from his voice in the night.
He is strong, indeed stout,
and from evil defiant
with his rallying cry:
ho ho ho, Green Giant!

Adam Stoskopf: "The Nordic Lord"
Make way for his greatness
for Adam the Nord!
The drinker of ale
and the leaper of Fjords!
His heart's made of fire
he is lean and he's hearty
and he's only lost once
at Mario Party.

Jay Dillon: "The Black Knight That Feasts on the Hearts of Your Puny Women, Children, and Stupid Toy Dogs"
Jay Dillon's a beast
he will cut and he'll carve 'ya,
he calls Sam really fat
so Sam calls him Large Farva.
He will eat your whole village
and wash it down with a soda,
and he kills without guilt
and he kills on a quota.

Nick Frisby: "The Very Very Mean Wizard Signified By The Skull on the End of His Very Very Long Wizard Staff"
Nick's a very mean wizard,

with a mean wizard-stick,
and he once kicked my ass
when I said "One-nut Nick!"
But he's brilliant and genius
and he looks much alike
the host Ryan Seacrest
though he can't ride a bike.

Steve Deardorrf: "Sergeant Slaughter"
His hair's colored blonde
though we know that it's gray
and he claims he can kill you
in 756 ways.
But don't let him fool you
he's more 'Soft' than he's 'Slaughter'
the odds weren't in his favor
with a wife and two daughters.

Five Straight

2008-04-23T08:11:00.000-07:00

Well, faithful Royals fans, it seems that our division leading record has been squandered in favor of our ace's ERA ballooning to 8.00, our hitters striking out 13 times in one game (do the math, that's half the outs in the game) and our bullpen, which started the year with the lowest ERA in the American League, giving up like ten runs in five innings. This, my friends, is not good. But in a sense, I wouldn't have really known baseball season was back until the Royals hit their first five-game losing skid. Now that they've reminded us all who we really are, I think it's time for our best pitcher, Brian Banister, to step up and win a game for us--provided we don't strike out thirteen times.

The Wisdom of Solomon

2008-04-21T10:39:00.000-07:00

All is vanity. That's what Solomon tells us. This means, if I'm correct, that writing papers for English classes in my last semester of Grad. School is--as well--vanity. In the spirit of defeat, and the wisdom of Solomon, I'm off to better pursuits: Xbox 360. If I must participate in vanity, it may as well be fun and interactive with nice graphics.

Tra la la.

Bats

It just keeps getting better...

2008-04-03T13:10:00.000-07:00

Well folks, the Yeti has officially given up. I'm done. To heck with all of this, I'm going home to do the one thing that I'm really good at, but still not great at: Halo 3 Team Doubles. I think I'll enjoy my life from now on. No more papers, thank you very much. What prompted my latest fit of depression? Another poor grade (B). But keep in mind, a B in grad school is pretty much a C-D type grade, because you can't get C's without flunking. And so I am the flunkee-monkey boy, eating lice off the hairy posteriors of those better than myself.

Tomorrow is Friday...tomorrow is friday...romtorro...be difray...

sigh...

More Yeti-Riffing

2008-04-03T08:50:00.001-07:00

I hate non-fiction. It's so boring and actually resists being humorous. Okay, maybe I just had a bad experience in one of my classes. For those of you who know me, I'm a slacker by trade. Or at least I appear to be. But I never, EVER slack in my creative writing classes. I write because I love it, and I get good grades because I work hard on my writing. But I have just receieved the SAME LETTER GRADE on a revision of a piece that I got the first time: B+. That's just not good enough, especially considering the fact that I did what the prof. wanted me to do with my piece, not what I wanted to do. She read my piece as a philosophical treatise of sorts; I read it as randomly relating humorous pieces of childhood trauma in a way that makes them marketable to other people's laughter and sense of humor. End of story. No philosophy, no theoretical B.S. Just funny. So I wrote what she wanted me to and failed at it. Any guesses as to why? Because it's not what I intended. What I wrote and what I revised are as different as night and day, or if you prefer a more directly applicable coupling, as different as authentic/artificial. First draft dynamic, second static.

And so my love of non-fiction is now not only sour, but bitter. Oh wait! Here's one thing it's good for: COMPLAINING.

Argh...

Stewing in Yeti anger.

Bats.

Guess what: It's Effing Go-Time

2008-04-02T11:42:00.000-07:00

So you may have noticed a few changes to the look of things around here. I decided that, in sticking with my cave theme and coupled with my hatred for summer, it was appropriate to change this to the unofficial cave of the Yeti, where he and his intellectual property may roam free without fear of persecution from outsiders. This blog, for however long I go on this particular tangent-rant-phase-thingy, will be devoted to warding off summer: the worst season of them all. Here are the two, and only two, good things about summer. 1) Baseball. I don't want to hear anything from you soccer fans about baseball being boring. It may take four hours to finish a a game, but at least it doesn't ever end in a tie, and there are few, if ever, riots. 2) Cooking meat over an open flame. This is still something I prefer in the Fall or Winter, but if it has to be done in the summer, I guess my carnivorous side takes over and I sweat and get bitten all for the sake of eating some poor, postmortem creature that's lathered in BBQ sauce. Delicious. I'd eat one now if I could find it and kill it fast enough. Why do I like Winter better? Simple: it's better. Christmas happens in Winter, and everybody likes presents and Baby Jesus. Snow is a pain, but it's pretty and can get you out of work and school. Sweatshirts and jeans are better apparel than shorts. There's rarely any sweating in Winter that's not on purpose. I hate getting in my car in the summer and sweating for no reason. It's equally as gross when I'm wearing dress pants and by the time I get to where I'm going I look like I've peed myself and I smell like wet deodorant. Sick.

All of this is to say: I never want summer to come again. I hate it. This begs the question: how do we kill summer? Is it possible? I suppose if we launched enough nuclear weapons all over the earth we could enter a permanent winter, but I think the radiation would eventually kill us if we didn't starve to death first. I don't mind summer that much, but it's close.

In other news: Lebron James does not look like King Kong, though I certainly will not defend Vogue as a reputable publication. Sure, I get the King Kongesqueness. Fine, whatever...Vogue is a racist publication...anyone surprised? To tell you the truth, if you want to get mad at anyone, be mad at ESPN. It shows Lebron with this face every time there's a highlight. This is not the face of King Kong; it's the face of I just schooled you so hardcore bad that your mother is now in tears. I dunked it down your tiny little throat because I've got madder skills that you. Eat my shoes.

As for Giselle: she needs to eat something. I do not find this woman, especially this picture, attractive whatsoever. I think she looks scarier than Lebron. It's like Medusa got highlights. What about that face doesn't say I'll eat your brains once I've killed you? Sexy? Nay. Frightening. And would she even be on the cover if she wasn't snogging Tom Brady? I think not. But Tom Brady, and my dislike for him, is an entire 'nother hate-filled post.

And so it is with much regret that the Yeti leaves you (the five of you who read) and moves to a colder climate: that of academia...ouch...ba-zing!

Stay chilly.

Yeti/Bats.

A Brief Inquiry

2008-03-07T10:51:00.000-08:00

I'm not sure about something, so I'm putting it out there to our pseudo-public forum of collective intelligence. Just how lethal is Windex? I'm guessing it's relatively poisonous, but as to how poisonous, I'm still up in the air. I'm obviously not going to test this, and I would discourage all of you from testing it as well, though I will by no means assume a prescriptive role in what you do or do not ingest. Not my place and all. You see, I'm writing a story about Emo kids, well, revising really. One of the kids threatens to inject himself with Windex, which I figured was relatively harmless compared to say, Draino. But I could be way wrong about this.

I promise this is a funny story. I'm not much for melodrama.

I would also like to find a copy of the Ramones album, "Brain Drain." If you can direct me to an appropriate retailer, I would be much obliged.

Enjoy your respective weekends.

Bats

Might Eric Simon Offer You Some Champanya?

2008-03-03T07:52:00.000-08:00

So if you missed the shower, you missed some typical shower stuff: good food, friends, family, and whole bunch of other American Consumer Capitalist Catch-Phrases that Bob Evans could use in an advertising campaign. But you may have also missed Eric Simon at the peak of his powers of genius. Not only can the man program Skynet (wink to my nerd homies) or play piano like a kid out in the rain, but he can also do an astounding, nay, astonishing, nay, uncanny impression of Christopher Walken teaching drain repair. Unbelievable. So this week, the Batblog will be honoring Eric Simon. Eric, to misquote the Bible, "we laugh at you because you first made us laugh." Bravo.

Tonight, we drink champagne.

A Brief Retraction...or...Fall In Line Productive Citizens!

2008-02-25T13:53:00.000-08:00

In response to Susan's comment, I will be making a brief retraction. Sure, non-fiction can be an art form--I'll grant you that. Some people are very good at it, and in light of your recent project, I'm sure you have deep, heart-felt connections to the world of non-fiction writing. I, however, do not. As primarily a lover/reader/writing of fiction, I feel that non-fiction does not allow me the necessary ability to lie, a liberty I take with great pleasure. It does not mean, however, that I am forbidden to embellish, which is a freedom I would certainly die in a blaze of glory defending (get it?). So, while I feel that non-fiction is an art form, I feel it is a boring art-form, in leagues with all other boring art forms, such as ballet, performance art, pantomime, crafts of all sorts, and classical music.

That said, the robots are here. They are coming to get you. They have already captured me, and have put me to work in a cold, dimly lit fluorescent basement where there is poor air quality and I am prone to many paper-cuts. Perhaps the robots have found you as well, in which case, I fear this message has reached you too late. Those of you who are unemployed: resist! Work is pain! Work is meaningless! Fun is everything! Embrace your humanity! Run screaming from your place of employment (when the robots aren't looking of course) to a place of happiness, say, the arcade, or the mall, your home or your XBox, or to a park if you're boring and outdoorsy. Do not be assimilated into the Robot Collective--it's not worth the "living wage" they're providing you with. Steal your groceries. Fuel your cars with the blood of sacred animals (cows for Hindus, etc.) Read more comic books. Sit in a large, comfortable chair that absorbs your butt at least six inches into its fabric and foam. Discuss anything but politics. Forgive those who sin against you, as they will soon be eliminated by the eye-lasers of the robot collective. Run in fear of the machine that will eat us all with a side of Quaker State (their joints need oil). Pray for rain, as it will rust the collective, freezing them in a permanent state of inoperativeness. Avoid strangers at all cost. They may be spies of the collective sent in dermal cloaking to discover dissension amongst your puny, diseased and inferior human ranks. Tell us all. We are one. Join us.

Nay, fiends! Back! Resist!

Sigh...futility...

The Return of The Juke Box Hero

2008-02-11T08:58:00.000-08:00

Sorry, but it is sometimes fun to announce yourself in a way that makes you feel important. I mean let's face it, I haven't done a whole lot of important things lately. I'm a Lieutenant Grade 2 in Halo 3 with a Gamerscore of over 1,000. In the grand scheme of things, though, I seem relatively unimportant. And that's cool. But it won't stop me from putting on some Foreigner, closing my eyes, and imagining myself rocking an arena full of people with mullets.

So that's who I am today: A Jukebox Hero, with stars in my eyes.

In other news: things are getting crazy busy and I don't want to do them, which is why I'm writing on my blog for the first time in two months. I am currently in a non-fiction writing class and I hate it. I can't tell the truth for snot--at least, I don't have as much fun doing it. It's like turning blogging into a high-art form. It's just not.

Since I hate research I write a lot about myself, but I have a previous entry about that. I guess I know a lot about myself, but being honest about it isn't really fun. But it can be funny. It's kind of like taking your clothes off in front of a crowd: really awkward, but sort of funny. Hopefully the class will get a good laugh out of my warped view of the world, and not my naked body.

Though I could distract them by removing my clothes during workshop. Yeah, read the essay now. Yep, that's my naked butt in that chair. I wouldn't sit here after this. It's not like I don't wash, but I can't really see back there, and my reach is only so limited. Yeah boys, that's chest hair. You like?

I digress...

And I'm spent.

Your Naked Juke Box Hero.

-Bats

Changes, Updates, Huzzah!

2007-12-18T14:10:00.000-08:00

I'm way too excited about this, but I had to draw attention to the change in tag line on my site. Ear hole...ha ha ha. That's almost as funny as The Chariot interpretation of Yanni Depp, or is it Elvish Presley??? Whichever one has "I'm scared" "Crap" "Ukraine" and "I shake my son" (which is my YouTube name cause I loved it so much). Har de har har and away we go.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QpAexi5Jld0&feature=related

Life is a Joke, or, if God doesn't laugh, I'm in trouble.

2007-12-17T12:36:00.000-08:00

After only 25 years I've decided that life has got to be some sort of joke. Let me first clarify that I am in no way some sort of hopeless nihilist--far from it. But life is way too funny to be serious all the time.

You think God doesn't have a sense of humor? Ever seen a donkey talk? Me neither, but it's not unprecedented. And what about that dunk-tank incident with Peter? Sure it was a lesson in faith, but you can't tell me that Jesus and the disciples didn't laugh about that later.

I hate this quote: "Laughter is part of the human survival kit," but I can't help but agree with it. To prove this point, let me tell you all some things that have happened to me that absolutely sucked, but gave me no other option but to laugh.

1) I have been kicked or otherwise jarred in the crotch more times than I can count, but you know what? It's funny for everyone else when it happens, and I laugh when it happens to others, so I say bring it on! More punches, kicks, and general objects should be hurled at this sensitive male area. Let's have some fun!

2) I love when anyone has a gigantic booger hanging out of their nose. It's the most awkward thing in the world, but I love awkward humor. The next time you see this, don't tell the person, that way when they find the gargantuan snot-rock hanging off their face, it will bring joy to the world.

3) I walk into everything. God gave me these gigantic shoulders, and not so much as a whisker to help with depth perception...well, more accurately, width perception. I walk into door frames and walls all the freakin' time, usually after making fun of someone. Karma doesn't exist, so I'll tell you what does: God and his sense of humor...and thank Him for it! Sam has gotten many minutes of laughter out of me saying something mean and then walking face first into a door.

4) I learned to do that whistle-water-drop thing when I had a needle two inches into my profusely bleeding finger. I had to laugh about that one because I could never figure it out until I was put into a situation of extreme pain and blood loss. Or maybe it was the drugs...hmm...

5) I got pantsed in eighth grade by my "girlfriend," boxers and all. What do you do in December when you're pantsed out of doors? Laugh with everyone else.

6) I fell off an ice truck. Yep, stepped right off of it, then hobbled around the house with a jet-black bruise on my hip for a month. I almost, I say almost, had to ask for help washing my butt. Call me prideful.

7) I say all sorts of "inappropriate" things that everyone else is thinking, then I get chastised by people like Sam. So I say, fine, I don't care, you were thinking it, and you laughed. The joke is always worth it, most of the time.

Not to be morbid, but I want my favorite quote to be written on my tombstone, if I get buried. Ask Sam, it's this: "If God doesn't laugh, I am in SOOO much trouble."

It's true, if we don't laugh, we don't live. A study at the University of Baltimore Maryland showed that laughter strengthens and expands blood vessels, allowing them to carry oxygen more efficiently. How great is that?

So be funny, take a risk on a joke, and laugh with people: you'll be saving their lives, or at least the quality therein. As my professor Tim Dayton says: "If you can't laugh at life, you're going to have a very long, hard one."

Have a good laugh today, like Jokey Smurf or the Joker, sans blowing people's faces up.

Aaron's Top 10 Favorite Songs...Because You Care...

2007-11-29T15:11:00.000-08:00

Since blogging is heavily narcissistic, I decided to make my latest post all about something I'm interested in. As such, there is always room for disagreement seeing as these are my favorite songs of all time, but since I have a blog and only care about what I think, I probably won't care what you say or think there's any way that you could possibly be right-er than me.

Without further ado, here are my top ten favorite songs in no particular order (and ask Kristen, these usually change weekly).

1) Born to Run--Bruce Springsteen. Absolutely unbelievable rock 'n roll anthem. It's about freedom, youth, burnt out heroes, and everything that rock 'n roll was supposed to be about. The acoustic version is probably the only thing that could bring both my father and I to tears (other than "Field of Dreams"). Bruce is the master of anti-establishment-nostalgic-patriotism, and looks great in a leather jacket, even at age 56 or whatever.

2) You Don't Know How it Feels- Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. So Tom Petty had this amazing rebirth in the mid-90's with his "Wildflowers" release, and he dressed up as the Mad Hatter in all the videos; what's sweeter than that? It's simple, catchy, infectious, and has references to rolling joints, which I'm sure are all hypothetical. Come on: rock 'n roll without "rolling joints" and "heading down the road"? I am by no means encouraging the use of illegal drugs, but I fully endorse listening to musicians who will do them FOR you. Admit it, some of the greatest albums have been born out of a drunken-trip-of-a-stupor.

3) Would- Alice in Chains. Speaking of drugs, my boy Layne Staley died of a heroin overdose in early 2002. Yes it's dark. Yes it's grungy. But this song still makes my hairs stand up on end. The man had the eeriest pipes in the world, and little wanna-be-wieners are still copying him, five years deceased. If this song doesn't make you want to kick your friend in the shins, nothing will.

4) House of the Rising Sun- The Animals. For a long time I wanted to visit this house in New Orleans, until I realized it was a brothel. Most unfortunate. Find me a more soulful voice in a white boy from Britain, and I'll take this off my list. Maybe. Organ, guitar hooks, and Eric Burdon singing his soul out. Magnificent. Just remember, mothers, tell your children not to do what I have done...

5) Baba O'Riley- The Who. I still can't figure out what instrument they use for that opening hook, but it's the greatest thing I've heard come out of speakers. Then Roger Daltry rips your face off with vocals that can't even be imitated properly. It is original teenage angst and rebellion. Here's an idea: The Who are missing a bassist and a drummer, while the Beatles are missing a guitarist and a lead vocalist. The Whotles? The Boo?

6) Green Onions- Booker T and the MG's. This song invented cool. No, it wasn't Jack Kerouac. After all, what is cool without a soundtrack? If you don't know this song, punish yourself.

7) Just Like Heaven- The Cure. Men can wear makeup too. Sure it's weird. Sure it's awkward. Sure it's freaking hideous, and yes, Robert Smith is now overweight and looks like a blimp with mascara, but that does not detract from the fact that this is the most infectious 80's pop-goth song of all time!

8) Whiskey in the Jar- The Dubliners. It's an Irish drinking song about pirates stealing stuff from each other, and then fighting about it. It's happy, has a penny-whistle or flute thingy, and has a firm distrust of women in relation to money; but you'll still want to dance!

9) Release- Pearl Jam. I could probably have picked just ten PJ songs, because if you've known me for ten minutes, I've probably talked about them, then Batman, then them, or I've been wearing a t-shirt, sweatshirt, jeans with patch, or baseball hat with them on it. This song gives me the worst goosebumps of any I've ever listened to. It's a song written to Eddie's dead father who he never really knew. It's also off of the quadruple platinum album "Ten" that vaulted them to success, full of tracks like "Alive" "Jeremy" and "Even Flow", but I think this is the absolute best. When I saw them in '03, they played this as an opener in a horrible thunderstorm. When Eddie referenced his dad in the lyrics, the thunder and lightning crashed, and I peed my pants. Amazing.

10) Achilles' Last Stand- Led Zeppelin. Some would say Stairway, some would say Immigrant Song. Others Black Dog, or Misty Mountain Hop. I contend that later Zep had some of the greatest songs ever written, and widely unnoticed. No other band could write a song with this title and get away with it. They are epic and nobody does it better or ever will.

Honorable Mentions:
Cherub Rock- Smashing Pumpkins.
In the Reins- Iron and Wine with Calexico
Let's Get it On- Marvin Gaye
Down on the Street- The Stooges
February- The Appleseed Cast
Kool Thing- Sonic Youth
Hunger Strike- Temple of the Dog
Fewer Broken Pieces- David Bazan
Inertiatic E.S.P.- The Mars Volta
Kick Out the Jams- The MC5
Four Word Letter (Pt. 2)- mewithoutYou
Hey! Is that a Ninja Up There?- Minus the Bear
Scentless Apprentice- Nirvana
I Might Be Wrong- Radiohead
Pet Cemetery- The Ramones
Train in Vain- The Clash
1945- Social Disortion
Give it Away- Red Hot Chili Peppers
Cakewalk- The Snake, The Cross, The Crown
Loud Love- Soundgarden
Plowed- Sponge
Scuttle Buttin'- Stevie Ray Vaughan
Army Ants- Stone Temple Pilots
Kingdom Come- Jay-Z (Gotta give it up for the hood).

As you can see, I put way too much thought and time into this, though I have very little of either.

Keep on rockin' in the free world.

Bats

The Great SamAaronkin Past-Time

2007-11-09T14:22:00.000-08:00

For those of you who already know Sam Vanbuskirk and Aaron Schwartz, you've come to expect greatness. The words that fall from our lips, the creations of our mind, the connection, the synergy, the sheer creative energy is, has been, and will continue to be, stifling.

But we've outdone ourselves; so much so that it is necessary to continue talking about the like 387th greatest thing we've ever done, which would fit at like number 3 on a normal person's list.

It's called On-Side Kick. Yes, the same as in American Football--or as I like to call it--the football that matters. Now that most of you are too distracted and offended by the previous statement, I must quickly move to a description of the game, so that your collective amazement and mind blownitude might mind-wipe you into wholehearted compliance as opposed to petty offense.

So here's the breakdown: you've got to have a roommate or roommates that won't punch you in the face for pulling a sweet joke over on them. This works great for all of you married people since your spouse really can't go anywhere for long, and would certainly punch you, but never in the face.

Get a regulation size football, none of that NERF trash. This is a patented "go big or go home" situation; do or die. Holding the football waist-high, wait for your roommate or significant other to emerge from the bathroom, or bedroom, or kitchen (provided they're not carrying anything sharp or hot, but cold water makes this joke all the more fun). Before they have time to assess the situation, yell "onside kick," and kick the football at them, preferably with a couple of bounces in between contact. If performed correctly, the ball should bounce anywhere between his/her feet to crotch level, and then careen off of said body in a random direction.

But here's the important part: recover the ball at all costs. You are down six with a minute thirty to go. The ---- Bowl is at stake. It is time to be a hero and get a girlfriend (or boyfriend for you females, or good laugh for those who are married). After all, what's the use of an onside kick without recovering it? You're just giving them good field position otherwise, or in this case, letting them ruin the joke.

I trust you all to try this A.S.A.P. Coincidentally I will not be able to try this on Kristen as I have a healthy fear of death, but do not let this detract from your own enthusiasm for what is sure to be the greatest indoor game of all time, yes, even better than Halo.

Don't be too shy to share the results.

Thanks, and happy kicking!

Bats

Who Am I?

2007-11-06T08:09:00.000-08:00

For those of you who don't know me (assuming you care), here's a nice little ditty I like to call me.

I was born in Wichita, Kansas, though I don't ever tell anyone that--my apologies to Wichita natives, the town ranks just above Topeka in my book, and that's not very high. So what I do tell people is that I am from Merriam, Kansas. Yes, this whole Merriam fad was actually started by me circa 1988, which made things interesting when I first started hanging out with all you House Church guys. I got to smile and nod when I was asked: would you like to come to MHOP and pray for our community.
"Why yes," I would say, "yes I would."

So I grew up in Merriam, literally two blocks from the landmark that is now MHOP, and as a child, I owned that neighborhood. Me, a bike, and sure as heck no girls, ran the streets like urchins of fortune.

I played many times in that parking lot, and various other parking lots. Life was good; then I grew up. I went to Shawnee Mission North and graduated in 2001. Since then, I've been in Manhattan, Kansas working on my undergrad in Creative Writing, and now, my Masters in Creative Writing. I'm currently working on my master's project tentatively titled "Real Monsters," a collection of short fiction.

I'm also marrying Susan's best friend, who most of you know as the lovely Miss Kristen Deardorff, but the name change isn't going to help her much: Schwartz. Get your Space Balls jokes out now folks, I've heard them all.

I also love Batman, as if that wasn't obvious already.

I'm getting old as well:

Yep, 25. Ouch...although I've heard that some of us are over 30, or nearly approaching that age?

Tee hee.

Why You Would Kill Superman--and how!

2007-11-05T19:28:00.000-08:00

Thanks Leah for your response and inquiry! The question (see below) was how to kill Superman, and Leah has furthered this important discussion with another question: why would you?

The easiest answer I can give you is this: what would you do if you had to? With that much power, in the hands of an alien no less, who's to say he can be trusted? He has seemingly limitless power and an unending source for with to recharge it (Earth's yellow sun).

So my final answer is: I've got to live my life with the constant question: what if? What if he goes bad? Who will be there to stop the ensuing chaos. Batman. Batman will be there with some horrendous kryptonite device of torture and trickery. The title of this blog is actually taken from a rather rude intrusion of the Bat-Cave on the part of the man of steel and poor manners.

As to how? His planet exploded like a million miles away, but has Lex Luthor ever had trouble obtaining the rare and lethal rock that kills Superman? No mam, kryptonite abounds. They'll be making shoes out of it next fall.

So thanks for the question. I love this stuff.

Bats

Controversy

2007-11-05T09:34:00.000-08:00

Grad school has sucked the creative energy out of my brain. As a result, you, my little voyeurs, are allowed to vote for the first blog to be written in chalk on The Bat-Cave wall. Your choices are as follows:

1) Who are you? (As in me, not you.)
2) What is the meaning of life?
3) Why is Journey no longer touring with front man Steve Perry?
4) I thought Journey was the meaning of life, please explain how it is not.
5) If I were to kill Superman, how would I go about doing so?

Your prompt responses are more than appreciated.

Yours truly with no foreseeable double crossing,

Bats