Monday, December 31, 2007
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Stuff Happening
I have a few things on my mind today…none of which would be interesting enough to sustain their own separate blog entry…so what I have decided to do is just mish-mash-mosh-smoosh them together in one long-winded, uninteresting diatribe. Who knows, if I feel spunky, I might just use "bullet points" to separate each thought. But, being as I'm rarely ever spunky, I'll probably just hit the "Enter" key after each thought is completed. Unfortunately, MySpace's useless blog interface makes bullet points more exciting than they really are. Anyhow, on with the banality.
First up, for those of you who haven't heard (and there shouldn't be too many of you…but…you never know…), I'll be moving to
Second up, for those of you who haven't heard (and there are probably a lot of you), I'm in a musical right now. It's called Gifts of the Magi, and it's playing at ArtsWest Theatre in
Third up, for those of you who haven't heard (and that would include everyone reading this, because I've told no one), I just realized recently that two of my MySpace friends "un-friended" me. And I'm not talking about the "Top 4/8/12/16/20 Shuffle" (which I'm sure plent of people have agonized over, for whatever reason). I mean that these two individuals went to "edit friends," took a peek at my handsome default picture, un-checked my name, and hit the save button. Now….I mean…friends come, and friends go…people change…and so-on and so-forth…but…I mean, is my digital friendship really all that much of a burden (this is directed to the remaining 158 of you…a fantastic bunch, I must admit)? Especially former friend 2…who I did a show with me my freshman year at WWU…who still lives in Bellingham…whose name is Darby…and whose MySpace profile is here (don't worry…we have exactly 0 mutual friends…so I figure it's okay for me to drop her real name). I mean…I barely ever crossed digital paths with the woman (as you know I generally eschew posting bulletins, leaving lewd comments, etc.), but I had thought that Darby and I were somewhat friendly in real life. Heck, in the summer after my freshman year, I even drove down to
(wow…isn't that funny that the most inconsequential topic I had to write about got the biggest paragraph? Man…there is something wrong with me)
Well, I think that's all I had to cover. A normal person could have written a 12 word blog: "Moving to LA. In a play. Un-friended by my new mortal enemy." But that's me…Sir Types-a-Lot.
But hey, I realize there are some of you out there (Sharla in particular) who haven't subscribed to my blog. This may be because some of you (Sharla in particular) may not be the most technically savvy people in the world. Now, if you'd like to subscribe, and get informed whenever there's a new post (Sharla in particular…hmm…that usage doesn't quite work, does it?) then all you need to do is click on that "Subscribe To This Blog" button on the left. You won't regret it…and who knows, if I get any nibbles here, I'll be sure to include you in an upcoming post. Such a deal, yes? Just ask
Thursday, November 29, 2007
What’s That Smell...?
I'm back home Sunday night from a five day vacation visiting the In-Laws in Idaho. Flight was nice and uneventful. Cab ride smelled like wet socks. Apartment smells like gasoline. Kitties need to be fed...
Wait. The apartment smells like gasoline. That's weird. Did I leave a gas can out, or something? No? Why the hell does my apartment smell like gasoline? Maybe one of those propane tanks in the closet downstairs sprung a leak or something. I check those out. Nope. It doesn't smell like propane, stupid...it smells like gasoline. Or exhaust smoke. Uh oh...I hope that's not carbon monoxide. Do I feel light-headed?
I check on all the kitties...they're alive, and pissed off that I'm not feeding them. Later, friends, later.
I guess I'll ask the downstairs neighbors if there was some kind of gas leak while I was away. A gas leak shouldn't smell like gasoline (plus we don't have any gas appliances in our place), but maybe they spilled gas in their house, or something. Or they're planning on torching the place for insurance money. Either way, I should speak with them.
I knock. No reply. I knock again, louder. No reply. Crap. All their lights are off, but I think I can see a flicker from their TV set. I walk around the yard...there's no smell of gasoline or exhaust anywhere. I walk by the garage, and put my ear to the door.
I can hear the sound of a motor running.
Dammit.
Dammit.
That's not a good noise.
As I scramble back upstairs, I create the scenario in my head. Originally there was a couple living below us, but the guy hasn't been around for a couple of months. They probably split up. The woman had been living their alone, but just couldn't take it any more. In despair, she got into her car in the garage, turned on the engine, and was sitting there now.
Meanwhile, I'm upstairs, trying to figure out what to do with the cats. They're still hungry. Doody is laying on his back in the living room. Frenchy is meowing at me from the kitchen. No time. Got to save a life.
I call Erika, who's still at her parents' house in Idaho. "Hi. Sorry, I can't talk right now because I have to call 911 to let them know the girl downstairs is sitting in her car in the garage with the motor running." "The cats are fine." "No, babe, I can't stay on the line...I've got to call 911." "I'm fine. The flight was fine. I've got to go. I'll call you back."
I head back downstairs. I call 911 on my cell phone (the fourth time I've ever called 911... I'm always afraid that they're going to think it's a prank call). "Hello, I just got back from a trip, and my entire house smells like gasoline." "Okay, but I live in a townhome, and I listened through the garage downstairs, and I heard an engine running." "I don't have access to the garage -- it's only being used by the downstairs unit." I give them my name, address, and telephone number. They say that they're sending over police and the fire department. I hang up. Then I scurry back upstairs because the phone is ringing.
It's Erika again. "No, I have all the windows open -- the cats are fine." All three cats are now by the open window, spying (as they always do) on birds. "Yes, I'll get them outside...I'll put them in my car until this gets figured out." "I'll call you back when I have more news."
Downstairs. In desperation, I pound on the door. I hear noises. The door unlatches. Through the door I hear a male voice, "What's up?"
"Um...hey, what's up? Is there...uh...I just got home from vacation..."
"Right on..."
"And...um, my entire apartment smells like gasoline. Is...was there a gas leak or something while I was gone?"
"Oh, it does? Well...I just got a motorcycle, and it's got a leaking fuel gasket."
"It does? Is...is it running or something?"
"No, I don't think so."
"I heard the sound of an engine in the garage."
"Nope, nothing's running. We have a washer and dryer down there."
"Oh." I'm dumbstruck. "Okay, cool...I just thought a car was running, or something."
"Sorry about that...I'll go take care of the smell."
"Oh, no worries. It's cool. Have a good night."
Dammit. There are about to be at least three emergency vehicles pulling into my driveway to investigate a leaky fuel gasket and a washing machine. Dammit. I call 911 back.
"Hi, this is Tyler. Um...I just called a couple of minutes ago about a car running in our garage?" "Yeah, yeah, that's me. Well, it turns out it was just a motorcycle with a leaking fuel...thing...in the tank. There was a fuel leak." I look down the street and see a firetruck navigating around the traffic circle at the end of the block, lights flashing. "So, they were home, and it turns out there's no problem." She tells me that they're going to cancel the call. "Okay, thanks."
The firetruck gets about 20 feet from my driveway, then flips its lights off, and hangs a right past our apartment. I go upstairs. The place still reeks of gasoline. The cats are still planning on assassinating birds (somehow) through the window screen. I feed them, and scoop the box.
As I'm taking the crap out to the garbage can, the guy is there, covering up the bike with trash bags. He points to the leaky valve/o-ring/motorcycle doohicky. He tells me that he has almost completely lost his sense of smell, so he didn't know that it was so bad. I tell him that I actually called the cops, because I thought they were dead. We share a good laugh. I drop the poo in the garbage can and bid him good night.
I call Erika back, and explain everything. She's still sorta' freaked out, as are her parents. I assure her that everything's fine. I'm fine. The cats are fine. We're good. It just stinks in here -- I'm going to air out the apartment. She's glad everything's all right, and reassures me that I did the right thing by calling 911. I'm still pretty embarassed.
After I hang up, I log on to MySpace, and I realize that I really should blog what happened tonight...so...
Wait. The apartment smells like gasoline. That's weird. Did I leave a gas can out, or something? No? Why the hell does my apartment smell like gasoline? Maybe one of those propane tanks in the closet downstairs sprung a leak or something. I check those out. Nope. It doesn't smell like propane, stupid...it smells like gasoline. Or exhaust smoke. Uh oh...I hope that's not carbon monoxide. Do I feel light-headed?
I check on all the kitties...they're alive, and pissed off that I'm not feeding them. Later, friends, later.
I guess I'll ask the downstairs neighbors if there was some kind of gas leak while I was away. A gas leak shouldn't smell like gasoline (plus we don't have any gas appliances in our place), but maybe they spilled gas in their house, or something. Or they're planning on torching the place for insurance money. Either way, I should speak with them.
I knock. No reply. I knock again, louder. No reply. Crap. All their lights are off, but I think I can see a flicker from their TV set. I walk around the yard...there's no smell of gasoline or exhaust anywhere. I walk by the garage, and put my ear to the door.
I can hear the sound of a motor running.
Dammit.
Dammit.
That's not a good noise.
As I scramble back upstairs, I create the scenario in my head. Originally there was a couple living below us, but the guy hasn't been around for a couple of months. They probably split up. The woman had been living their alone, but just couldn't take it any more. In despair, she got into her car in the garage, turned on the engine, and was sitting there now.
Meanwhile, I'm upstairs, trying to figure out what to do with the cats. They're still hungry. Doody is laying on his back in the living room. Frenchy is meowing at me from the kitchen. No time. Got to save a life.
I call Erika, who's still at her parents' house in Idaho. "Hi. Sorry, I can't talk right now because I have to call 911 to let them know the girl downstairs is sitting in her car in the garage with the motor running." "The cats are fine." "No, babe, I can't stay on the line...I've got to call 911." "I'm fine. The flight was fine. I've got to go. I'll call you back."
I head back downstairs. I call 911 on my cell phone (the fourth time I've ever called 911... I'm always afraid that they're going to think it's a prank call). "Hello, I just got back from a trip, and my entire house smells like gasoline." "Okay, but I live in a townhome, and I listened through the garage downstairs, and I heard an engine running." "I don't have access to the garage -- it's only being used by the downstairs unit." I give them my name, address, and telephone number. They say that they're sending over police and the fire department. I hang up. Then I scurry back upstairs because the phone is ringing.
It's Erika again. "No, I have all the windows open -- the cats are fine." All three cats are now by the open window, spying (as they always do) on birds. "Yes, I'll get them outside...I'll put them in my car until this gets figured out." "I'll call you back when I have more news."
Downstairs. In desperation, I pound on the door. I hear noises. The door unlatches. Through the door I hear a male voice, "What's up?"
"Um...hey, what's up? Is there...uh...I just got home from vacation..."
"Right on..."
"And...um, my entire apartment smells like gasoline. Is...was there a gas leak or something while I was gone?"
"Oh, it does? Well...I just got a motorcycle, and it's got a leaking fuel gasket."
"It does? Is...is it running or something?"
"No, I don't think so."
"I heard the sound of an engine in the garage."
"Nope, nothing's running. We have a washer and dryer down there."
"Oh." I'm dumbstruck. "Okay, cool...I just thought a car was running, or something."
"Sorry about that...I'll go take care of the smell."
"Oh, no worries. It's cool. Have a good night."
Dammit. There are about to be at least three emergency vehicles pulling into my driveway to investigate a leaky fuel gasket and a washing machine. Dammit. I call 911 back.
"Hi, this is Tyler. Um...I just called a couple of minutes ago about a car running in our garage?" "Yeah, yeah, that's me. Well, it turns out it was just a motorcycle with a leaking fuel...thing...in the tank. There was a fuel leak." I look down the street and see a firetruck navigating around the traffic circle at the end of the block, lights flashing. "So, they were home, and it turns out there's no problem." She tells me that they're going to cancel the call. "Okay, thanks."
The firetruck gets about 20 feet from my driveway, then flips its lights off, and hangs a right past our apartment. I go upstairs. The place still reeks of gasoline. The cats are still planning on assassinating birds (somehow) through the window screen. I feed them, and scoop the box.
As I'm taking the crap out to the garbage can, the guy is there, covering up the bike with trash bags. He points to the leaky valve/o-ring/motorcycle doohicky. He tells me that he has almost completely lost his sense of smell, so he didn't know that it was so bad. I tell him that I actually called the cops, because I thought they were dead. We share a good laugh. I drop the poo in the garbage can and bid him good night.
I call Erika back, and explain everything. She's still sorta' freaked out, as are her parents. I assure her that everything's fine. I'm fine. The cats are fine. We're good. It just stinks in here -- I'm going to air out the apartment. She's glad everything's all right, and reassures me that I did the right thing by calling 911. I'm still pretty embarassed.
After I hang up, I log on to MySpace, and I realize that I really should blog what happened tonight...so...
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
My First Girlfried, Part Two: The "Relationship"
This is a continuation of an earlier blog here. Normally, I say that "this is the first part of a continuing series," and then promptly never actually write the second part. But this time...I did it. A second part. Booyah.
As far as I was concerned, the hard part was out of the way. I had asked a girl to be my girlfriend, and she'd said "Yes." Awesome. Now, generally, news of a new relationship was something to be shared with the masses. And share I did.
That night, I casually brought it up to my mother and sister...who seemed pleased, but ultimately uninterested. My mom asked me about her...and I mentioned that she played flute in the band. And that she was pretty. And...yeah. Blonde. And...um...I dunno'. There was a long silence, and eventually, mercifully, the subject changed.
Myself and May...back in the day...
So, my breaking news turned out to be a bit of a bust. But I was undeterred -- now I decided that I had to tell all of my friends at school. The only real problem with that idea was that I really didn't score any of those "good" friends until late in the 8th grade, or so. And I didn't really see much of my elementary school friends any more...so I had to share the news with the people I was closest to: my Home Ec table. These included Jessica Simpson (not the Jessica Simpson...but a reasonable facsimile), a kid named Jaurdey who was born in
Me: So, I'm going out with May Jensen.
Jessica Simpson: You are?
Jaurdey: Who cares? (Jaurdey didn't like me very much)
Jessica Simpson: How long have you guys been going out?
Me: For about a week now.
Jessica Simpson: That's the girl with the huge bangs, isn't it?
Me: Yeah, they're…I think that's her.
Jessica Simpson: Wow…that's great. What do you guys do for fun? Does she let you surf on her bangs?
This was met with gales of laughter from the entire table. Well...at least, from half of the table. Of course, in retrospect, it really wasn't that funny of a joke...or even a remotely well-crafted dig. To this day, I'm not sure if she was making fun of me, or May. But, either way, Jessica Simpson's (something about typing out that full name just makes it better for me...I don't know why) wisecrack did the trick...and I was shamed into silence for the rest of the class period.
not 
On Monday of the following week, I was heading to my English class, and I happened to be walking next to a girl that was heading in the same direction...someone I knew from the class we were headed to. I'll call her Jennifer, because every other female at my junior high school had some form of the name Jennifer, so the odds are pretty good that that was her name. Anyways, I had been feeling pretty confident around the lady-folk as of late, and I decided to strike up a conversation:
Me: So, I'm dating May Jensen now.
Jennifer: You are? I hadn't heard anything about that.
Me: Yep, we're dating. We've going on for almost a week.
Jennifer: That's weird...she hasn't mentioned anything.
Me: Well, I asked her, and we're dating...so...I'm pretty sure we're dating.
Just then, I saw May approaching the two of us, walking in the opposite direction. I seized my opportunity:
Me: Hi May.
May: Hi
And we passed each other. The fact that May had said Hi to me was all the evidence I needed...and I basked in it. Jennifer lapsed into an indifferent silence, but I think my point was well taken.
So, after two weeks had gone by, I realized that those two glorious words were all that passed between myself and May. Not much in the way of a "relationship." At that point I decided that it was time for me to take it to the next level. Yes, I needed a full-on conversation with the young lady. I would need to suppress all my fear of the opposite sex, but I would do it. I had to do it. And to hell with Jennifer and Jessica Simpson – they'd be eating their words when I totally started holding hands with my woman all over school.
So I scouted around to find out where May "Hung out" before first period. I couldn't find her, so I asked around. I was pointed in the direction of the bus loading area, near the front of the school. The crowd around there was pretty thick, and a little more "popular" than what I was used to, but I tried to look as casual as possible. I found May in one of those massive "talking circles;" facing in. I didn't personally belong to any circles myself – I usually wound up sitting in the cafeteria, either finishing up my homework, watching my fellow nerds play Magic the Gathering©, or reading a fantasy (or sci-fi) novel by myself.
But here I was, peering creepily from a distance at May, as she chatted with her friends. Taking a few deep breaths to calm myself, I made my way over to her and stood awkwardly behind her, trying to look as casual as my terrified mind would allow. She didn't notice me. I stood there for about a ten-count...willing her to look over at me. I imagined her eyes locking with mine...followed by a warm smile...or maybe an embrace of some kind...then maybe I could get her phone number so I could call her. Or something. Even a friendly look would be fantastic. Of course, I didn't want to get my hopes up too much...but damned if she wouldn't turn around.
I decided that the time for action had come. I was a man now. A man with a girlfriend. No more sissy bullcrap -- it was high time that I started acting like a boyfriend. I tapped May gently on the shoulder. She turned around (finally), and looked me in the eyes:
Me: Hey, what's up?
For a fraction of a second, I saw her blue eyes widen in surprise. Or alarm. Or fear. Or…something. Then, without saying a word, May right back around and continued talking to her friends. It was as if I wasn't even there. I had become invisible. I really didn't know what to do. Do I tap again? Suddenly, overwhelmingly, I felt my face flushing with embarrassment. Little beads of sweat formed on my brow line, and I realized, very quickly, that I was way, way, way out of my element.
So I did the only thing that made any sense to me...I melted into the crowd and returned to the safety of the cafeteria. I didn't feel sad, or angry, or anything other that a cutting sense of humiliation. From what I can tell, I'd been pretty stupid...I'd actually gone and thought that I had a girlfriend, going so far as to tell a bunch of strangers that I had "hooked up" with someone. But in reality, I'd just been fooling myself. There was no girlfriend. There was no relationship. It was either a misunderstanding, or an especially cruel practical joke. Either way, my confidence was shattered. I slunk back to the den of the "unpopular smart kids." These were my kind of people. Of course I never really considered myself a real nerd (then again, my sordid history of Dungeons and Dragons, Sci-Fi fandom, scholastic achievement, and lack of athletic prowess would beg to differ), but I did enjoy their company. They were some of the funniest, least discriminating people I knew, and their unbiased friendship kept me going whenever I'd try and fail at being popular.
So, I don't know if it was that episode, or some other aspect of my life (parents divorce, big brothers moving out, a general feeling of social alienation), but I didn't have more than a sentence-long conversation with another female until the summer after the 9th grade, where Derek Roger and Jeff Pohl taught me how to talk to women (first big realization: don't be terrified of them) at a Lutheran gathering in San Antonio. Which means that, women-wise, Junior High was a complete and utter wash.
I don't remember ever talking to May…or even being in the vicinity of May ever again. I transferred out of 7th grade band at the end of that trimester (to join the 9th grade "symphonic band")…and when that happened all my entire schedule shifted (so I didn't have to deal with that clarinetist, or Jennifer, or Jessica Simpson, or Jaurdey, or any other person whose name started with a "J"). I don't even recall her being at my high school, though my yearbook seems to have a difference of opinions on that one.
As for me…well…I ended up winning in the end after all, I suppose. I married a super-smoking-hot former high school cheerleader who is very kind, and has an amazing sense of humor (in fact, I can guarantee she would have come up with a better dig than Jessica Simpson did)…which is pretty cool. I don't know what happened to May. She's got a MySpace account, but like all good people that you're curious about, but were never really "friends" with, it's "Private."
15 years later...my first girlfriend and my sexy self...
Friday, November 9, 2007
Robots In Disguise
So, I just got finished watching that Transformers movie...and (sorry Korby) it was not good. In fact, it was pretty much the "opposite of good" in my mind. Double-in-fact, I go so far as to put it in the loathesome category of, what I like to call "Michael Bay Movies." There are only a couple of other films in there...but trust me, it's not a category you want to be in.
In fact, it was so bad, I spend the last 2 hours "Photoshopping" this fake movie poster, which uses the actual poster from the movie...with a few pretty hilarious changes:
See what I did there? Man, I should have been a graphic designer (yes, Kellie, this means I'm after your job -- be scared).
However, this posting is not a movie review, because people who write movie reviews (or even people who have opinions about movies) are stupid, ugly, and smell like Corn Starch. No, I realized watching this movie that I needed to add two more phrases to my "list of phrases I'd like to be able to say before I die."
First up:
"Let's get the hell out of here!"
Because it implies not only immediate danger, but the fact that you're the only one who recognizes the danger. And that...is awesome.
Secondly:
"Take the shot."
(and I'm talking in the sniper-y fashion, not the inspirational basketball coach-y fashion) This is because, if I'm issuing this order, not only am I talking to a sniper, I'm freaking in charge of a sniper! How awesome is that!? The answer: "15 Awesome."
One final piece of business...there were 29 damn people who looked at my blog today. Did I miss something? I mean...God bless all of you wonderful new people...you make my life worth living. But...I mean, the last thing I posted was some retarded story about how I'm a total scaredy-cat wiener...and it was, like, 7 days ago. Did I get hurled onto digg.com or something? Because, if so...awesome (yes, if you can't tell, I like that word), and how can I start making money off of this? Do I need to start selling t-shirts, or mugs, or Tyler Rhoades lapels, or what? I'm willing to listen to suggestions...
In fact, it was so bad, I spend the last 2 hours "Photoshopping" this fake movie poster, which uses the actual poster from the movie...with a few pretty hilarious changes:
See what I did there? Man, I should have been a graphic designer (yes, Kellie, this means I'm after your job -- be scared).
However, this posting is not a movie review, because people who write movie reviews (or even people who have opinions about movies) are stupid, ugly, and smell like Corn Starch. No, I realized watching this movie that I needed to add two more phrases to my "list of phrases I'd like to be able to say before I die."
First up:
"Let's get the hell out of here!"
Because it implies not only immediate danger, but the fact that you're the only one who recognizes the danger. And that...is awesome.
Secondly:
"Take the shot."
(and I'm talking in the sniper-y fashion, not the inspirational basketball coach-y fashion) This is because, if I'm issuing this order, not only am I talking to a sniper, I'm freaking in charge of a sniper! How awesome is that!? The answer: "15 Awesome."
One final piece of business...there were 29 damn people who looked at my blog today. Did I miss something? I mean...God bless all of you wonderful new people...you make my life worth living. But...I mean, the last thing I posted was some retarded story about how I'm a total scaredy-cat wiener...and it was, like, 7 days ago. Did I get hurled onto digg.com or something? Because, if so...awesome (yes, if you can't tell, I like that word), and how can I start making money off of this? Do I need to start selling t-shirts, or mugs, or Tyler Rhoades lapels, or what? I'm willing to listen to suggestions...
Friday, October 12, 2007
Gabriel Makes a Funny
Gabriel is my nephew -- he looks a little bit like this guy...except about one year older.
Anyhoo...Gabriel has a penchant for absurdist humor that is quite delightful, in my opinion. Today at lunch, he cracked this little gem:
Q: Why did the chicken and the banana cross the road?
A: TO GO TO THE EYEBALL SHOP!!!
Very cute. He may have been talking about this place, but I have no idea why the chicken would bring the banana. A banana would never be able to truly appreciate such a store...
Anyhoo...Gabriel has a penchant for absurdist humor that is quite delightful, in my opinion. Today at lunch, he cracked this little gem:
Q: Why did the chicken and the banana cross the road?
A: TO GO TO THE EYEBALL SHOP!!!
Very cute. He may have been talking about this place, but I have no idea why the chicken would bring the banana. A banana would never be able to truly appreciate such a store...
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
My First Girlfriend, Part One: The "Courtship"
All of this marriage talk (literally, 7 of my MySpace friends got married in the last two months...very strange...) has got me thinking about my history of relationships...specifically the early ones. I'm talking about those wonderful Junior High School hook-ups. Well, I thought I'd take a moment to tell you about my very first girlfriend...read at your own peril -- Jr. High was not a real happy time for your humble author...
Now, stay tuned for Episode two of two...where I detail the amazing details of our loving relationship. In the meantime, to keep you busy, here's a picture of a giant armadillo humping a rock. Enjoy:
My First Girlfriend
I knew the game -- I'd never participated, myself, but I sure as hell knew it. Several of the more popular kids in my 6th grade class had hooked up -- Tyson had a steady relationship with Emily for almost an entire school year. Heck, even my best friend Eric – a kid who frequently shouted random made-up words, made weird noises, and loudly repeated mis-heard song lyrics – had met a girl named Erika at camp, and (partly through the similarities of their first names, and partly because he called her the "prettiest one in their camp group") started "going steady" with her.
Now I was ready. It was the big time. 7th grade. Where boys became squeaky-voiced men, and (more importantly) a bunch of different elementary schools sent their kids to one big school, thereby increasing the eligible supply of lovely ladies three-fold. I had put the awkwardness of my years-long-crush-that-ultimately-led-to-me-never-even-actually-talking-to-the-girl-I-liked behind me, and now I was ready for the ladies to just line up, and break off a delicious (if somewhat ripe) piece of Tyler Bundt Cake.
And what better class for a woefully insecure boy to "hook up" in than 7th Grade Band. The open seating plan made for a wonderfully spacious area to roam about, and "lay your mac down." Plus, the class size was double that of a normal classroom, increasing the odds by...however many more kids there were in band than in a regular class (probably three-to-one...I'm guessing...). Finally, the "girl-to-guy" ratio was decidedly in favor of the gents, thanks to the ladies' affinity for the clarinet and the flute, and guys' affinity with "being cool and avoiding dork-heavy classes like band."
It happened pretty suddenly. I was picking up new sheet music (as was my job, being the leader of our misfit section), and I saw a flautist lean over to a neighboring clarinetist, asking her who I was. The clarinetist said in a very clarinetty kind of way, "I think his name's
However, that other girl surprised me – who the heck would ask about me? Lowly me? The percussionist with the Saints© Starter© parka, cowlicks, a Hypercolor© t-shirt, a shiny forehead and store-brand "pump sneakers."
But a low rumble was starting. I returned to the back row, flush with a couple pages of new sheet music, and handed it out to the rest of the apathetic ne'er-do-wells known as the "percussionist section." Already, an expanding group of flautist, clarinets, spilling into the french horns, were exchanging hushed whispers and looking in my direction. Normally I'd take this as a sure-fire sign of "group mocking," but I happened to be in one of the few places on campus where I was considered "somewhat cool." Plus, it wasn't accompanied with the typical "whispering, looking, then giggling" that went along with your run-of-the-mill mockery.
No, this was very different...strange...and toe-curlingly frightening. I did my best to look very suave and cool about the whole thing – clicking my .7mm mechanical pencil...curving the bill of my Seahawks cap...pumping up my sneaks...clumsily twirling a drumstick between my fingers...et cetera. Anything I could do to kill how dorky and socially inept I had felt since the first day of Junior High.
Suddenly, there was a breakthrough. I was approached by a female trombonist, asking if I "liked" the whispering flautist, whose name, I was informed, was "May" (month changed to prevent bringing embarrassment upon myself regarding someone who owns a MySpace account...and could potentially read this). I told her, very suavely, that I didn't know anything about May...but that she seemed nice. The trombonists' eyes went wide, as if she were a terrier that had just been tossed a "Snausage" and she retreated, giddily, to the expanding pack of nattering 7th grade girls.
After some consultation with the beet-red, face-buried-in-hands-from-embarrassment "May," the trombonist (let's call her "Imogen," because I don't remember who actually did this part of the story, and I've never really known how to pronounce the name "Imogen." The name "Siobhan" is also like that. And for the longest time, "Hermione" was that way as well, until some chick wrote a movie or something with the name in it...or something...), Imogen, returned.
"May wants to know if you want to go out with her."
"Really?"
"Yes. Do you."
"I don't know...I'd like to ask her myself...I mean...shouldn't I?"
There was a brief pause. "She can't talk now because she has a sore throat. So, do you want to go out with her, or not?"
I paused, missing the fact that May had been chatting away with her band of girls...sore throat and all. I didn't really care about that little white lie...because this was amazing. Some girl actually liked me – I was utterly befuddled. Up till now I had been convinced that I was born without any of the confidence my older brothers possessed, any of the charm from my father, the grace from my sister, or any the wonderful bone structure of my mother. I was...for all I believed...quite ordinary looking...if not a little "funny looking."
But somehow this "May" was interested in me. Not just "talking" to me (which would have been enough for my fragile self esteem), but actually romantically interested in me. I found it very hard to believe...and at that time in my life, when I thought things were too good to be true, I normally just assumed it meant that the people involved were just making fun of me somehow.
However, now was no time to worry about that. Because...what if she actually did like me? Imagine the ramifications of that. My girlfriend. Holding hands with me, walking down the aisles of our Junior High School...eating at the same lunch table together...talking on the phone...and just maybe (months and months into the relationship) sharing an awkward, dry-lipped kiss behind the English class portable...or something. I don't know...it would have done wonders for my self confidence...not to mention my status among my peers (both of them).
"Well?"
"Um...okay. Yes. I do."
"Great! I'll go tell her." And the trombonist ran off.
I saw her relate this news to May...who was wearing a purple Adidas parka...with her hair adorned by "a ribbon," and "bangs that went straight up from her forehead, and cascaded in a hair-spray-hardened wave across her lovely scalp" (Erika informed me that these are called "mall bangs"). To me, she was gorgeous...and while I might not have completely agreed with her taste in men (are you tired of the self loathing yet?), she sure was put together well.
Band class seemed to drag on forever that day...my new girl sitting across the room, exchanging shy smiles with yours-truly. Finally, the "bing" sounded over the P.A., and class was dismissed. I waited until May had fully disassembled her flute, grabbed her Espirit bag, and headed for the door. I intercepted her just outside the door.
She nodded her head, yes, and touched her throat gently to let me know she was unable to talk.
"Great! Okay...good, I just wanted to make it official, you know."
She nodded again.
"All right...well...I've got to get to my next class...so...I'll see you later." And I waved goodbye, delighted with my newfound stake in the area known as "manhood."
Now, stay tuned for Episode two of two...where I detail the amazing details of our loving relationship. In the meantime, to keep you busy, here's a picture of a giant armadillo humping a rock. Enjoy:
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Now...when I say I've lost weight...
A couple of months ago I was doing the show Man of La Mancha. It just so happened that a former classmate of mine from Inglemoor High School (one-time home of beatboxer Blake Lewis...and a very nice astroturf field...) was cast in the show as well. One evening, reminiscing backstage, she commented to me, "I hardly recognize you now. You were so skinny in high school!"
A "skinny" Tyler Rhoades, pictured with Blake Lewis from the IHS production of "The Man Who Came To Dinner." Blake is the fedora'd chap leaning on my left shoulder.
Now, because I'm not a little sissy little girl, I didn't take that as an insult. I'd not been directly (or indirectly) called "fat" before in my life...except for that doctor I saw one time who told me it might be a decent idea for me to lose a little weight. But he was a professional, and I didn't begrudge him his professional opinion.
The way I see it, Tara...sweet innocent Tara...laid it out for me in plain English. I was fatter now than I was then. No malice...just observation. Understand, though, that her off-hand comment did not lead me on the path to "weight loss." No, I'd estimate that since the night she called me "not skinny," I probably packed on another good 10 to 20 pounds. Not in sadness...but more in ignorance. But I was well-aware of the "shrinking" habit of my pants waistlines...
-- My experiment with the South Beach Diet was a miserable failure (I remember one "meal" I was supposed to eat was seven cashews. Seven. I downed them in one swallow like a strung-out Bellevue mom...then realized I couldn't eat anything for 2 more hours. Before those cashews had even traversed the length of my esophagus to end up semi-digested in my tummy-tum, I knew that this was not the diet for me).
-- I had a gym membership...and went about 3 times a week. But I never did much more than sit on the cycle for 20 minutes while I read a book -- not the most strenuous workout in the world. Plus, I didn't change my eating habits one bit; so my "bad food fetish" was more than making up for those hundred-or-so-calorie outings I did on the stationary bike.
So, pretty much, I figured was content to try to hold my weight steady at 220-230. I thought, if I could keep it there I could avoid the uglifying stigma of super-obesity, as well as the health risks that came along with that.
However, flash-forward to March of 2007. The polarizing event finally happened. Erika visited a personal trainer at 24 Hour Fitness. Her trainer, Nick, showed her how to eat and exercise. She parlayed this information to me. I scoffed. She gave me "a look." Then I told her, "Okay, I'll try it."
The plan was pretty simple -- eat X number of calories, scattered over 6 meals a day. Breakfast 400 calories. Snack two hours later = 200 calories. Lunch 400 calories, etc. You could eat almost anything, so long as you stayed under that calorie limit.
So, I prepared myself mentally, and Erika prepared my meals every stiking day for the last 6 months. Did I mention that I'm marrying perhaps the most amazing person in the world? But I digress.
Six months on the diet? Well, my waist is down...I'd say about 4 inches or so (went from a 38 to a 34). My poundage is at 200 (last time I checked), and I'm still eating healthy...which is really the weirdest part of the whole thing. Not bad...really...
Anyway, this blog entry is getting way, way, waaaaay too self-congratulatory for my tastes. I just thought I'd take a second to fill you all in, in case you're surprised next time you see me. This way I don't have to tell the whole story again.
In case you were curious, here's a before (taken December 2006) and an after (taken September 2007):
A "skinny" Tyler Rhoades, pictured with Blake Lewis from the IHS production of "The Man Who Came To Dinner." Blake is the fedora'd chap leaning on my left shoulder.
Now, because I'm not a little sissy little girl, I didn't take that as an insult. I'd not been directly (or indirectly) called "fat" before in my life...except for that doctor I saw one time who told me it might be a decent idea for me to lose a little weight. But he was a professional, and I didn't begrudge him his professional opinion.
The way I see it, Tara...sweet innocent Tara...laid it out for me in plain English. I was fatter now than I was then. No malice...just observation. Understand, though, that her off-hand comment did not lead me on the path to "weight loss." No, I'd estimate that since the night she called me "not skinny," I probably packed on another good 10 to 20 pounds. Not in sadness...but more in ignorance. But I was well-aware of the "shrinking" habit of my pants waistlines...
-- My experiment with the South Beach Diet was a miserable failure (I remember one "meal" I was supposed to eat was seven cashews. Seven. I downed them in one swallow like a strung-out Bellevue mom...then realized I couldn't eat anything for 2 more hours. Before those cashews had even traversed the length of my esophagus to end up semi-digested in my tummy-tum, I knew that this was not the diet for me).
-- I had a gym membership...and went about 3 times a week. But I never did much more than sit on the cycle for 20 minutes while I read a book -- not the most strenuous workout in the world. Plus, I didn't change my eating habits one bit; so my "bad food fetish" was more than making up for those hundred-or-so-calorie outings I did on the stationary bike.
So, pretty much, I figured was content to try to hold my weight steady at 220-230. I thought, if I could keep it there I could avoid the uglifying stigma of super-obesity, as well as the health risks that came along with that.
However, flash-forward to March of 2007. The polarizing event finally happened. Erika visited a personal trainer at 24 Hour Fitness. Her trainer, Nick, showed her how to eat and exercise. She parlayed this information to me. I scoffed. She gave me "a look." Then I told her, "Okay, I'll try it."
The plan was pretty simple -- eat X number of calories, scattered over 6 meals a day. Breakfast 400 calories. Snack two hours later = 200 calories. Lunch 400 calories, etc. You could eat almost anything, so long as you stayed under that calorie limit.
So, I prepared myself mentally, and Erika prepared my meals every stiking day for the last 6 months. Did I mention that I'm marrying perhaps the most amazing person in the world? But I digress.
Six months on the diet? Well, my waist is down...I'd say about 4 inches or so (went from a 38 to a 34). My poundage is at 200 (last time I checked), and I'm still eating healthy...which is really the weirdest part of the whole thing. Not bad...really...
Anyway, this blog entry is getting way, way, waaaaay too self-congratulatory for my tastes. I just thought I'd take a second to fill you all in, in case you're surprised next time you see me. This way I don't have to tell the whole story again.
In case you were curious, here's a before (taken December 2006) and an after (taken September 2007):
Monday, August 27, 2007
My New Commercial...?
Well, I've gone and done it again. My status as a "local low-budget television commercial icon" has been solidly solidified. And I'm now officially a perpetrator of the evil "Do The Puyallup" jingle.
Now, actors talk about their methods a lot...such as Johnny Depp basing his Pirates of the Caribbean character on Keith Richards...or how Dustin Hoffman based the titular character of Rainman on real-life autistic man Kim Peek.
Me? Well, I broke the commercial into two phases. Phase 1 (what I like to call the "Sad Phase") is a cross between Sloth and Quaid on the Martian Surface. Phase 2 was a mix of Cheshire Cat and The Mask. See if you can spot my influences -- the commercial is here:
Allegedly this is playing on the local TV stations right now...though I have yet to see it. Anyhow, I thought I could keep you all apprised of my burgeoning local television commercial career. Just waiting for that wonderful day when the legendary Vern Fonk gives me a call...
Thursday, July 12, 2007
The Problem with Fruit...
Don't get me wrong, fruit. It's nothing personal. Heck, if I had to choose between you and your creepy friend "vegetable," I'd take you in a heartbeat.
But let me tell you my position before you get all pissed. See, fruit, here's your problem: inconsistancy of taste. Nothing goes from fresh to mealy...sweet to bitter...clean to filthy...smooth to rotten more often than you, fruit.
Example 1: I'm enjoying one of your delicious offspring, the cameo apple. Eating horizontally, keeping each side an equal thickness (in case I need to put the apple down without worrying about the dreaded 'apple topple'), and making sure I don't accidentally bite from "white part to skin" which could result in a shard of skin getting stuck between the teeth (maybe the worst feeling in the world...just above "death of a child"). When, after one of my even-ing rotations, my eyes feast upon a "bitten-into black thing." It looked more than a little like this:
Except, picture a big ol' Tyler-sized bite out of the edge of the black pit.
Now, for those of you unfamiliar with the apple cultivating trade, that's what they like to call core rot. And I had a mouth full of it. It that sentence makes you feel a little uneasy, I think you can imagine my distress. Needless to say, I was picturing the bacteria and fungus slowly cultivating in my stomach, ready to burst out Alien style.
Yes. Gross.
Now, fruit, rot is not your only problem (although that's a pretty freaking major problem). See, here's another troubling thing; you are very often far too much work, for far too little reward.
Example 2: Valencia orange. 12:00 PM. My desk. Last Tuesday. Now, I have to be very careful when I'm peeling a "full-sized" orange...because A) that damn sticky juice gets all over every damn thing, and B) you've got to try like hell to maintain the integrity of the actual tender orange slices as you're punching the way through the skin with your fingernails.
Now, the peeling process is a good 2-3 minute exercise...and you've got to make sure you get every little last bit (and as much of that white crap left-over from the inside of the peel), because God knows that tasting an orange rind is one of the worst experiences in the world (just ahead of lymphoma). Ideally it should look a little something like this when you're done:
But, inevitably, it will end up looking more like this:
So I get my peel on. It's going pretty well - the juice is contained. I break me off a juicy piece...and...sink my teeth into a funky slice of ball-stink. So I spent a large, inexcusably lengthy amount of time peeling a piece of fruit that I took one bite of then threw away. Unacceptable.
Now, have you ever bitten into a cheeseburger and had it taste like moldy carrots? Or taken a bite of mashed potatoes, and had them taste like expired milk? No. You're alone on this fruit. Hell, even the freak-nasty vegetables of the world are nothing if not consistent. You, my friend, need to decide whether you want to "taste good," or "taste bad." You can't have it both ways.
Because I like you. There's nothing like a crisp, fresh piece of you. And your buddy banana rarely disappoints. But...there's just way too much left up to chance with you. Alls I can say is, shape up. Soon.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
I Suck At Dreaming...
Wow...what a perfect category to put this under. All right...sorry...that's just never happened before with a blog I was going to write. Moving forward...
Basically, I'm terrible at dreams. All told, I can remember exactly 4 dreams that I've ever had...and all but one was based on a movies or TV show I'd just watched. Everything else just sucks...there's never any discernable story...visceral image...memorable feeling. It's all just weird, random, non-sequential horse crap.
Now, I've been told that you're never supposed to re-tell a dream to someone...unless they were involved in the dream in some way...or it was relevant to the topic at hand. These four dreams were none of the above. And I'm going to re-tell them to you now -- only to prove the point that I suck when I fall asleep. I would have made a terrible Freddy Krueger victim.
DREAM #1: Happened when I was about 10, at my friend Eric's house. I was throwing He-Man toys into a swimming pool, then fishing them out. However, Eric (for whatever reason) decided to throw one of the figures into the deep end. I was crushed -- I certainly couldn't get back Man-E-Faces from the bottom of the 12' end of the pool.
Luckily, there was a yellow snorkel lying nearby that had two holes cut in the top...sorta' like eyes. It occured to me that I should use that snorkel to swim to the bottom of the pool...and wouldn't you know it? I could breathe underwater! Amazing. Imagine, someone who is only dreaming that he's underwater is able to breathe?!?! It was remarkable. Anyhow, I rescued the bygone Man-E-Faces, and the dream was over.
DREAM #2: I was about 6 years old when I had this gem. I was running around a corner...somewhere (must have been in a galaxy quite some distance away) and I saw Princess Leia. Standing in an empty room. I saw her, then ran back around the corner (for some reason). When I returned, she'd changed into that crazy lead singer creature from Jabba's palace...with the big snout (apparently named Sy Snootles). I was, understandably, devastated. Now, I'm devastated and how ordinary and lame this dream truly was
to 
DREAM #3: I must have been about 9 when I had this dream. Basically, it was just a re-telling of the movie The Monster Squad (which, according to Korby, has just been released on DVD). Now, in the movie, each of the kids sorta' "takes out" a movie monster; Dracula, Wolfman, A Mummy, etc., by "legendary" means...i.e. silver bullets, stakes, fire. The only real variation on the movie is that my dream took place at my elementary school. Which monster was I skillfull enough to take out? The Gill Creature (based, apparently, on the Creature from the Black Lagoon)...the one that gets killed by the incredibly imaginative "shotgun" in the movie. My variation? I kill him with a katana. Creative, yes...I know.
DREAM #4: This one was my favorite. I must have been about 12 when I got this nighttime miracle. Anyhow, I was sweet on a girl all through elementary school...and in my dream we were playing softball with some fellow classmates. Now, for some reason I realized I was dreaming mid-way through the game, and I was excited about that, because I figured I could control my own destiny, and wrap my subconscious around my prepubescent finger.
And then I get my chance. The girl that I'm sweet on, Erin (not her real name. Okay...actually, it is her real name) comes up to bat. Since I'm controlling my dream I decide to have her hit a home run.
The pitcher underhands the ball.
Erin winds up.
And swings.
Crack.
The ball sails over the second baseman's head, and bloops into right field for a base hit.
The crowd goes wild.
Then I wake up.
Yes, you heard me correctly, in the dream that I was supposedly controlling, the best I could get the imaginary Erin to do was dink a single over the infielder's head. Because...once again...I really suck at dreaming.
Basically, I'm terrible at dreams. All told, I can remember exactly 4 dreams that I've ever had...and all but one was based on a movies or TV show I'd just watched. Everything else just sucks...there's never any discernable story...visceral image...memorable feeling. It's all just weird, random, non-sequential horse crap.
Now, I've been told that you're never supposed to re-tell a dream to someone...unless they were involved in the dream in some way...or it was relevant to the topic at hand. These four dreams were none of the above. And I'm going to re-tell them to you now -- only to prove the point that I suck when I fall asleep. I would have made a terrible Freddy Krueger victim.
DREAM #1: Happened when I was about 10, at my friend Eric's house. I was throwing He-Man toys into a swimming pool, then fishing them out. However, Eric (for whatever reason) decided to throw one of the figures into the deep end. I was crushed -- I certainly couldn't get back Man-E-Faces from the bottom of the 12' end of the pool.
Luckily, there was a yellow snorkel lying nearby that had two holes cut in the top...sorta' like eyes. It occured to me that I should use that snorkel to swim to the bottom of the pool...and wouldn't you know it? I could breathe underwater! Amazing. Imagine, someone who is only dreaming that he's underwater is able to breathe?!?! It was remarkable. Anyhow, I rescued the bygone Man-E-Faces, and the dream was over.
DREAM #2: I was about 6 years old when I had this gem. I was running around a corner...somewhere (must have been in a galaxy quite some distance away) and I saw Princess Leia. Standing in an empty room. I saw her, then ran back around the corner (for some reason). When I returned, she'd changed into that crazy lead singer creature from Jabba's palace...with the big snout (apparently named Sy Snootles). I was, understandably, devastated. Now, I'm devastated and how ordinary and lame this dream truly was
to DREAM #3: I must have been about 9 when I had this dream. Basically, it was just a re-telling of the movie The Monster Squad (which, according to Korby, has just been released on DVD). Now, in the movie, each of the kids sorta' "takes out" a movie monster; Dracula, Wolfman, A Mummy, etc., by "legendary" means...i.e. silver bullets, stakes, fire. The only real variation on the movie is that my dream took place at my elementary school. Which monster was I skillfull enough to take out? The Gill Creature (based, apparently, on the Creature from the Black Lagoon)...the one that gets killed by the incredibly imaginative "shotgun" in the movie. My variation? I kill him with a katana. Creative, yes...I know.
DREAM #4: This one was my favorite. I must have been about 12 when I got this nighttime miracle. Anyhow, I was sweet on a girl all through elementary school...and in my dream we were playing softball with some fellow classmates. Now, for some reason I realized I was dreaming mid-way through the game, and I was excited about that, because I figured I could control my own destiny, and wrap my subconscious around my prepubescent finger.
And then I get my chance. The girl that I'm sweet on, Erin (not her real name. Okay...actually, it is her real name) comes up to bat. Since I'm controlling my dream I decide to have her hit a home run.
The pitcher underhands the ball.
Erin winds up.
And swings.
Crack.
The ball sails over the second baseman's head, and bloops into right field for a base hit.
The crowd goes wild.
Then I wake up.
Yes, you heard me correctly, in the dream that I was supposedly controlling, the best I could get the imaginary Erin to do was dink a single over the infielder's head. Because...once again...I really suck at dreaming.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Been A While Since I Done One'a These...
Apparently this survey revolves around the suffix "ology." Or is that a prefix? Or a preposition? You know who'd know the answer to those questions for sure? God.
MOUTHOLOGY.*
Q. What is your salad dressing of choice?
Ice water and tartar sauce
Q. What is your favorite fast food restaurant?
Arnie's Shakes and Parental Supervision. It's inDenver
Q. What is your favorite sit-down restaurant?
Sherry's Shuck 'n Sit Shack, because nothing says "delicious food" like "tongue twisters that make you swear."
Q. On average, what size tip do you leave at a restaurant?
About 4 inches by 2 inches?
Q. What food could you eat every day for two weeks and not get sick off of?
Elm
Q. What are your pizza toppings of choice?
Oddly enough, ice water and tartar sauce.
Q. What do you like to put on your toast?
Tears
Q. What is your favorite type of gum?
Wadded up printer paper, flavored with talc
Arnie's Shakes and Parental Supervision. It's in
Q. What is your favorite sit-down restaurant?
Sherry's Shuck 'n Sit Shack, because nothing says "delicious food" like "tongue twisters that make you swear."
Q. On average, what size tip do you leave at a restaurant?
About 4 inches by 2 inches?
Q. What food could you eat every day for two weeks and not get sick off of?
Elm
Q. What are your pizza toppings of choice?
Oddly enough, ice water and tartar sauce.
Q. What do you like to put on your toast?
Tears
Q. What is your favorite type of gum?
Wadded up printer paper, flavored with talc
TECHNOLOGY.*
Q. Number of contacts in your cell phone?
Actually, funny story, I lost a contact last week, so I haven't been wearing them.
Q. Number of contacts in your email address book?
Oh, Christ! There it is! In my address book! So, I guess...it looks like there's "one"...and it's really dry. Well, hopefully I can cry this one back to health! Oh boy...this is going to be a "retina-scratching good time!"
Q. What is your wallpaper on your computer?
Actually I just have it painted. Wallpaper is too 1979 for my refined tastes
Q. How many televisions are in your house?
I can't possibly tell you that – you'll have to ask my televologist. I believe he has the most up-to-date numbers.
BIOLOGY.*
Q. Are you right-handed or left-handed?
Thanks. I actually lost both of my hands in a nasty "tartar sauce manufacturing accident" you bastard.
Q. What's your best feature?
My stumps.
Q. Have you ever had anything removed from your body?
The demon C'thulu. My pancreas. Alan Arkin.
Q. Which of your five senses do you think is keenest?
My sense of keening.
Q. When was the last time you had a cavity?
My belly button is my favorite cavity – it's where I keep my gum...or should I say, my "wadded, talc-flavored paper."
Q. What is the heaviest item you lifted last?
This morning I managed to lift my own fat ass. Out of bed. And to the brothel. Then I lifted a dead hooker. Then I don't really remember what happened.
Q. Have you ever been knocked unconscious?
I'm usually awake when I do that. "SHAVE AND A HAIR CUT! TWO BRICKS!!!" Right? Awww...so funny...what'll those guys from the 1920s think of next?!?!?!?
BULL[CRAP]OLOGY.*
Q. If it were possible, would you want to know the day you were going to die?
I already know the date; it came to me in a dream. January 12, 2005. Wait. Oh, crap...that angel was a damn liar.
Q. Is love for real?
No. But you know what is for real? Kit from Knight Rider. I saw him in person.
Q. If you could change your name, what would you change it to?
Farty FartFart McFarterson. Because that was my grandfather's name. (More like "grandFARTER!" HA!)
Q. What color do you think looks best on you?
Mirrored
Q. Have you ever swallowed a non-food item by mistake?
I swallowed a football once by accident. I thought it was a brown bowl of tartar sauce.
Q. Have you ever saved someone's life?
No, but I have shaved someone's legs (MY OWN!)
Q. Has someone ever saved yours?
Saved my what? Oh, life? No...except for that guy that saved me from drowning on January 12th of 2005. I never really thanked him for that. Actually...if I remember correctly, I sued him. Boy, that was a fun time in my life...
Saved my what? Oh, life? No...except for that guy that saved me from drowning on January 12th of 2005. I never really thanked him for that. Actually...if I remember correctly, I sued him. Boy, that was a fun time in my life...
DAREOLOGY.*
Q. Would you walk naked for a half mile down a public street for $100,000?
I'd do it for a bag of Doritos and a BENDY STRAW!
Q. Would you kiss a member of the same sex for $100?
I'd kiss a member of K.I.S.S. for $20...so long as they didn't get any makeup on my clothes.
Q. Would you allow one of your little fingers to be cut off for $200,000
Then I'd leave it as a tip! Ha! Take that, establishment!
Q. Would you never blog again for $50,000?
Only losers blog.
Q. Would you pose naked in a magazine for $250,000?
Depends...would it be on a public street somewhere? Because....daaang...HELLO $350,000!!!
Q. Would you drink an entire bottle of hot sauce for $1000?
I'd be lying to you if I said that there isn't any chance that you couldn't possibly see me never doing that. On a public street. Wait. What was the question?
Q. Would you, without fear of punishment, take a human life for $1,000,000?
I would. I'd take it to the circus, because they have "acrobats" there that will simply BLOW YOUR FREAKING MIND!
Q. Would you give up watching television for a year for $25,000?
That's another question you'd have to pose to my televologist. Let me give you his number: 1-111-11111-111111-1111-111-111-14. I think he lives in
DUMBOLOGY.*
Q: What is in your left pocket?
The shame of my ancestors
Q: Is Napoleon Dynamite actually a good movie?
Does the Pope Catholic in the woods/1?!1/?
Q: Do you have hardwood or carpet in your house?
My hardwood matches the drapes, if you know what I mean. And if you don't, then allow me to help: both my hardwood and drapes are brown...and covered in pubic hair.
Q: Do you sit or stand in the shower?
My hardwood matches the drapes, if you know what I mean. And if you don't, then allow me to help: both my hardwood and drapes are brown...and covered in pubic hair.
Q: Do you sit or stand in the shower?
I usually just cower...cry...and pee a little...
Q: Could you live with roommates?
Only if they don't mind living with a guy who likes to burn shoes indoors.
Q: How many pairs of flip flops do you own?
Several million.
Q: Where were you born?
Nowhere. I was "Bourne." Three times.
Q: Last time you had a run-in with the cops?
I might have accidentally stolen a cop car and set a bunch of buildings on fire a couple of months ago.
Q: What do you want to be when you grow up?
Older
Q: Who is number 1 on your top 8?
.125 (HA HA HAAAA!!!! FRACTION COMEDY IS FUNNY!!!!)
Q: Could you live with roommates?
Only if they don't mind living with a guy who likes to burn shoes indoors.
Q: How many pairs of flip flops do you own?
Several million.
Q: Where were you born?
Nowhere. I was "Bourne." Three times.
Q: Last time you had a run-in with the cops?
I might have accidentally stolen a cop car and set a bunch of buildings on fire a couple of months ago.
Q: What do you want to be when you grow up?
Older
Q: Who is number 1 on your top 8?
.125 (HA HA HAAAA!!!! FRACTION COMEDY IS FUNNY!!!!)
LASTOLOGY.*
Q: Friend you talked to?
Oh Christ...really? Sentence fragments? You were doing so well? Well...I'll answer anyway: I talked to my giant rabbit friend Harvey Keitel about ten minutes ago.
Q: Last person you called?
Right now: I call on all of you to end racism, violence, and CSI Miami.
Q: Person you hugged?
I put John Lovitz in a bear hug when he wouldn't leave my apartment.
FAVORITOLOGY.*
Q: Number?
Beetle-Seven
Q: Color?
Beetle-Brown
Q: Season?
Beetle...umm...Autumn.
Beetle...umm...Autumn.
CURRENTOLOGY.*
Q: Missing someone?
Almost every time I throw stuff at them.
Q: Mood?
Defeated
Q: Listening to?
A tree falling in the woods. Because I'm around.
Q: Watching?
A blinking cursor, and my own sickly reflection.
Q: Worrying about?
My sickly complection...and the next season of Road Rules
Almost every time I throw stuff at them.
Q: Mood?
Defeated
Q: Listening to?
A tree falling in the woods. Because I'm around.
Q: Watching?
A blinking cursor, and my own sickly reflection.
Q: Worrying about?
My sickly complection...and the next season of Road Rules
RANDOMOLOGY.*
Q: First place you went this morning?
Already told you – Jimmy John's Hooker House onHanover Street
Q: What can you not wait to do?
Get in line somewhere!
Q: What's the last movie you saw?
That guy made us all watch a "Sexual Harassment Avoidance" video. I thought it was awesome how all the chicks in the film had big ol' boobies.
Q: Do you smile often?
If I had teeth I would.
Q: Are you a friendly person?
Fuck you. What do you think, Einstein?
Q: Now that the survey's done, what are you going to do?
Gather all the pennies I can find around the house, put them in the tub, and have a "Penny Bath" with lavender soap and vinegar! Then...I don't know...maybe I'll play with Legos and eat Pringles.
Already told you – Jimmy John's Hooker House on
Q: What can you not wait to do?
Get in line somewhere!
Q: What's the last movie you saw?
That guy made us all watch a "Sexual Harassment Avoidance" video. I thought it was awesome how all the chicks in the film had big ol' boobies.
Q: Do you smile often?
If I had teeth I would.
Q: Are you a friendly person?
Fuck you. What do you think, Einstein?
Q: Now that the survey's done, what are you going to do?
Gather all the pennies I can find around the house, put them in the tub, and have a "Penny Bath" with lavender soap and vinegar! Then...I don't know...maybe I'll play with Legos and eat Pringles.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
The Results are in!!!
And guess what!? I'm still fucking bald!
Sorry. I don't like to bust out the "f" word much -- it's like using the "good" China (as opposed to the "communist" one). The way I see it, there's a time to eat off of the cheap ceramic plates (1,261/1,262nds of the time really...my fraction-friends), and then there is a time to risk thousands of dollars (and the love of your fiancee), break out the 'spensive dishes, and drop that KFC barbecue wing right onto the finest, expensivist, floweryist plate you can find. That's my relationship to the "f" word. Good in moderation, but too fucking much fuck, then you start to distract from the issue...
That issue, of course, being the slow, inevitable retreat of my goddamn hairline (now there's a word I can buddy up with)...coupled with a ever-growing patch of skin peeking its way through the back part of my dome. Those of you who knew me four months ago might remember this little gem, where I bared my soul (as well as a surprising high percentage of my pate) and told the world that I was a balding 27 year old American...and that I chose to fight back by filling up my hair with goopy hair tonic "twice daily."
Well, I thought I'd keep it up for two months, and see how much would of my old hair would return to me. Now, here's the before picture...when I was at, what I like to call, my "most baldest" back in January:
This was my projected hair...at the time...
Finally...the real deal. Four dang months of what I like to call "somewhat inconsistant" application...aaaaaaaand...
Bah! Crap-balls. Let me center that better...
Well...I don't know if "fuller" and "more luscious" would be a good word to describe it. Maybe "greasier." Well...let me try to fluff it out a little bit...give it the old "finger-tip-volume" run-through that I'm famous for:
Well, that's a little better. One might say it's "downright passable," though it does appear that I'm still having same ol' "receding hairline" issues (my generic minoxidil does nothing for that, supposedly). Well...maybe if I try to add even more volume to this bad boy, things would resolve themselves...
Ahh...perfection.
And no, those of you looking to make a snarky little comment about my computer screen: "No, I was not looking at porn." Unless by "porn" you mean "a pornographic web site," in which case I am guilty as charged. Ah...porn...the greatest thing to happen to me since apple juice.
However, on the plus side of this whole "bald dude" thing, due to some "persistent" suggestions by my pretty lady fiancee person, I've managed to lose a little bit of weight (which I may detail later...when I'm in a better mood...and not completely high on opiates...).
Though, admittedly, I'm not nearly the adonis I dreamed of when I first ordered my two-pack of hair growth formula. Ah, well...the eternal quest for exterior beauty surges onward.
Sorry. I don't like to bust out the "f" word much -- it's like using the "good" China (as opposed to the "communist" one). The way I see it, there's a time to eat off of the cheap ceramic plates (1,261/1,262nds of the time really...my fraction-friends), and then there is a time to risk thousands of dollars (and the love of your fiancee), break out the 'spensive dishes, and drop that KFC barbecue wing right onto the finest, expensivist, floweryist plate you can find. That's my relationship to the "f" word. Good in moderation, but too fucking much fuck, then you start to distract from the issue...
That issue, of course, being the slow, inevitable retreat of my goddamn hairline (now there's a word I can buddy up with)...coupled with a ever-growing patch of skin peeking its way through the back part of my dome. Those of you who knew me four months ago might remember this little gem, where I bared my soul (as well as a surprising high percentage of my pate) and told the world that I was a balding 27 year old American...and that I chose to fight back by filling up my hair with goopy hair tonic "twice daily."
Well, I thought I'd keep it up for two months, and see how much would of my old hair would return to me. Now, here's the before picture...when I was at, what I like to call, my "most baldest" back in January:
This was my projected hair...at the time...
Finally...the real deal. Four dang months of what I like to call "somewhat inconsistant" application...aaaaaaaand...
Bah! Crap-balls. Let me center that better...
Well...I don't know if "fuller" and "more luscious" would be a good word to describe it. Maybe "greasier." Well...let me try to fluff it out a little bit...give it the old "finger-tip-volume" run-through that I'm famous for:
Well, that's a little better. One might say it's "downright passable," though it does appear that I'm still having same ol' "receding hairline" issues (my generic minoxidil does nothing for that, supposedly). Well...maybe if I try to add even more volume to this bad boy, things would resolve themselves...
Ahh...perfection.
And no, those of you looking to make a snarky little comment about my computer screen: "No, I was not looking at porn." Unless by "porn" you mean "a pornographic web site," in which case I am guilty as charged. Ah...porn...the greatest thing to happen to me since apple juice.
However, on the plus side of this whole "bald dude" thing, due to some "persistent" suggestions by my pretty lady fiancee person, I've managed to lose a little bit of weight (which I may detail later...when I'm in a better mood...and not completely high on opiates...).
Though, admittedly, I'm not nearly the adonis I dreamed of when I first ordered my two-pack of hair growth formula. Ah, well...the eternal quest for exterior beauty surges onward.
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Elementary School Confessional
We all carry regrets. Many of us also carry Sucrets, and to those fine people I say: "Bully!'
But for me, the wonderful memories at Arrowhead Elementary School are a bit tainted. I was not a nice kid growing up. I wasn't a bad kid, but for sure, I did a lot of pretty bad things that I'm not proud of. For every "I was the last man standing when we played British Bulldog," there's an "I made fun of the girl with down syndrome in our class." So I thought I'd take this opportunity (since it's on my mind) to air out some of those regrets and secrets and sucrets I've held for the last 15 years.
1) In Mr. Gribble's class, we were rewarded for correct answers in class by being given "shots" at a toy basketball hoop above the door. If you took those shots and made them, you'd earn rewards...like 5 mintues of extra recess time, candy, etc. Well, he'd ask at the end of the week how many "shots" you made in class. I lied about how many I made. A lot. I still feel pretty bad about that.
2) One time I tripped my friend Ronnie playing basketball...by throwing my hip out. He fell to the ground and skinned his elbows and knees pretty good. I told him I didn't mean to do it...but I think I did...in hindsight. I was just really bad at basketball...and I still am...
3) One time I threw an interception during a two-hand-touch football game. I was so pissed off (because the kid tricked me into throwing it to him, even though he was on the other team) that I drop-kicked the ball across the field and stomped away to pout.
4) I was really mean to my 4th grade teacher Ms. Quackenbush. I don't know why...I just liked picking fights with her for some reason. She actually retired from teaching the year after I left her class. To this day, I think I had a hand in her leaving the profession.
5) One time there was a kid running down the cement covered area in our school. I remember thinking "Hey, you're not supposed to run on the cement areas." So I stuck my foot out and tripped him...sending him skidding across the ground...once again giving him some nasty scrapes on his appendages. Incidentally, it was the same kid who made me throw the interception to him. Actually...holy cow...it's this guy. Looks like he landed on his feet, though...which is nice for him. In any event, he's got twice as many friends as I do...so...he's got that going for him...
6) In preschool through 2nd grade I had a crush on a girl named Lisa. In the 3rd through the 6th grade, I had a crush on a girl named Erin. Just to let you know how "smooth" I was around women, the longest conversation I had with either of them was with Erin...when I asked her (during recess), "Hey...did you see Kent go this way?" To which she replied, "No." Then I left. Yes...I was a gradeschool casa nova.
7) When I was a school crossing guard, one time there was a kid at the crosswalk and I didn't get up to guide him across the street. One of the "short bus" bus drivers was in front of the kid when that happened, and she stopped her bus and yelled at me.
8) We were playing Smear the [un-PC-term-for-homosexual] one time (though, at the time I had no concept of the pejorative use of the name -- I just though it meant "weirdo"...just FYI), and my buddy Myles had the football. He tried to jump over a group of people, and I kinda' kicked his legs out from under him when he got airborne. He landed really heavily on his side, got the wind knocked out of him, started crying, and he was asking "who did it." I didn't say that I was the one who did it...but I still feel really bad about it to this day.
Well...that's all I can think of for now. Join me next week, when I take a nap on the keyboard...and you get to see an entertaining sequence of repeating letters!!!
But for me, the wonderful memories at Arrowhead Elementary School are a bit tainted. I was not a nice kid growing up. I wasn't a bad kid, but for sure, I did a lot of pretty bad things that I'm not proud of. For every "I was the last man standing when we played British Bulldog," there's an "I made fun of the girl with down syndrome in our class." So I thought I'd take this opportunity (since it's on my mind) to air out some of those regrets and secrets and sucrets I've held for the last 15 years.
1) In Mr. Gribble's class, we were rewarded for correct answers in class by being given "shots" at a toy basketball hoop above the door. If you took those shots and made them, you'd earn rewards...like 5 mintues of extra recess time, candy, etc. Well, he'd ask at the end of the week how many "shots" you made in class. I lied about how many I made. A lot. I still feel pretty bad about that.
2) One time I tripped my friend Ronnie playing basketball...by throwing my hip out. He fell to the ground and skinned his elbows and knees pretty good. I told him I didn't mean to do it...but I think I did...in hindsight. I was just really bad at basketball...and I still am...
3) One time I threw an interception during a two-hand-touch football game. I was so pissed off (because the kid tricked me into throwing it to him, even though he was on the other team) that I drop-kicked the ball across the field and stomped away to pout.
4) I was really mean to my 4th grade teacher Ms. Quackenbush. I don't know why...I just liked picking fights with her for some reason. She actually retired from teaching the year after I left her class. To this day, I think I had a hand in her leaving the profession.
5) One time there was a kid running down the cement covered area in our school. I remember thinking "Hey, you're not supposed to run on the cement areas." So I stuck my foot out and tripped him...sending him skidding across the ground...once again giving him some nasty scrapes on his appendages. Incidentally, it was the same kid who made me throw the interception to him. Actually...holy cow...it's this guy. Looks like he landed on his feet, though...which is nice for him. In any event, he's got twice as many friends as I do...so...he's got that going for him...
6) In preschool through 2nd grade I had a crush on a girl named Lisa. In the 3rd through the 6th grade, I had a crush on a girl named Erin. Just to let you know how "smooth" I was around women, the longest conversation I had with either of them was with Erin...when I asked her (during recess), "Hey...did you see Kent go this way?" To which she replied, "No." Then I left. Yes...I was a gradeschool casa nova.
7) When I was a school crossing guard, one time there was a kid at the crosswalk and I didn't get up to guide him across the street. One of the "short bus" bus drivers was in front of the kid when that happened, and she stopped her bus and yelled at me.
8) We were playing Smear the [un-PC-term-for-homosexual] one time (though, at the time I had no concept of the pejorative use of the name -- I just though it meant "weirdo"...just FYI), and my buddy Myles had the football. He tried to jump over a group of people, and I kinda' kicked his legs out from under him when he got airborne. He landed really heavily on his side, got the wind knocked out of him, started crying, and he was asking "who did it." I didn't say that I was the one who did it...but I still feel really bad about it to this day.
Well...that's all I can think of for now. Join me next week, when I take a nap on the keyboard...and you get to see an entertaining sequence of repeating letters!!!
Sunday, April 22, 2007
Story Time
Just a quick one today:
I used to brush my teeth in my shower. It's true. It's not terribly interesting, but true, none-the-less. Now, the obvious question to follow this is, "Tyler, dearest, why on earth don't you brush your teeth in the shower any more?" Well, I'll tell you...but just be warned -- it involved behavior that can only be described as "really freaking stupid."
Now, I used to keep my brush (let's call him "Mr. Colgate," because that was his goddamn name) in one of those fancy shower soap holder things. It looked a little something like this:
Only completely different. I think it involved suction cups, or something. Maybe I just dreamed that part. Anyway, it had a similar set up to the above picture -- tray above (for soap), toothbrush holder below (for Mr. Colgate).
Now, wouldn't you know it, but one day I noticed that Mr. Colgate had collected a dollop of, what can only be decribed as "soap," on his bristles. At this point, the intelligent person would run Mr. Colgate under the shower nozzle...maybe give his bristles a little "finger-run-over" to eliminate the possibility of ingesting something awful. But not me. Not Mr. College Graduate (that's what Mr. Colgate used to call me...because that is my goddamn name). No, I'd learned in chemistry that acids and bases eliminate each other...so I figured if I just went ahead and put some toothpaste on the bristles (toothpaste being either an acid...or a base...or whatever...I don't know, I was really tired, okay?), then it'd cancel out the possible twing of soap that'd hit my taste buds.
Well, surprise surprise, it didn't work. Nope, the Aim toothpaste (Mr. Colgate's favorite brand, oddly enough) was completely overpowered by the chemically pungent Dial soap. "Drat," I thought in an old-timey radio voice. "That didn't work." So with a burning mouth full of wicked chemicals, I got out of the shower. Toweled off. Then went to the kitchen to make things right.
What was my brilliant idea? Well, I thought it'd be a good idea to wash the taste out of my mouth with something to drink. "Orange juice ought to do it," is what I didn't say out loud. Three gulps of Minute Maid O.J. later, my mouth now tastes like wicked mix of soap, toothpaste, and orange juice. So I do the next logical thing, I decide to put that chemistry knowledge to use (did I mention that I got a C in my basic chemistry class? No? Well, I did), and drink a few gulps of milk to even things out.
Of course that worked about as well as one would expect. Now my tongue has been treated to a frothy concoction of soap, toothpaste, orange juice, milk, morning breath, and stupidity (which, incidentally, were all nicknames I had at some point in high school). Swallowing my pride (and what was probably a lethal combination of chemicals swirling around my palate), I left my crappy apartment to go to my crappy job in my crappy car.
Crap, I'm dumb.
I used to brush my teeth in my shower. It's true. It's not terribly interesting, but true, none-the-less. Now, the obvious question to follow this is, "Tyler, dearest, why on earth don't you brush your teeth in the shower any more?" Well, I'll tell you...but just be warned -- it involved behavior that can only be described as "really freaking stupid."
Now, I used to keep my brush (let's call him "Mr. Colgate," because that was his goddamn name) in one of those fancy shower soap holder things. It looked a little something like this:
Only completely different. I think it involved suction cups, or something. Maybe I just dreamed that part. Anyway, it had a similar set up to the above picture -- tray above (for soap), toothbrush holder below (for Mr. Colgate).
Now, wouldn't you know it, but one day I noticed that Mr. Colgate had collected a dollop of, what can only be decribed as "soap," on his bristles. At this point, the intelligent person would run Mr. Colgate under the shower nozzle...maybe give his bristles a little "finger-run-over" to eliminate the possibility of ingesting something awful. But not me. Not Mr. College Graduate (that's what Mr. Colgate used to call me...because that is my goddamn name). No, I'd learned in chemistry that acids and bases eliminate each other...so I figured if I just went ahead and put some toothpaste on the bristles (toothpaste being either an acid...or a base...or whatever...I don't know, I was really tired, okay?), then it'd cancel out the possible twing of soap that'd hit my taste buds.
Well, surprise surprise, it didn't work. Nope, the Aim toothpaste (Mr. Colgate's favorite brand, oddly enough) was completely overpowered by the chemically pungent Dial soap. "Drat," I thought in an old-timey radio voice. "That didn't work." So with a burning mouth full of wicked chemicals, I got out of the shower. Toweled off. Then went to the kitchen to make things right.
What was my brilliant idea? Well, I thought it'd be a good idea to wash the taste out of my mouth with something to drink. "Orange juice ought to do it," is what I didn't say out loud. Three gulps of Minute Maid O.J. later, my mouth now tastes like wicked mix of soap, toothpaste, and orange juice. So I do the next logical thing, I decide to put that chemistry knowledge to use (did I mention that I got a C in my basic chemistry class? No? Well, I did), and drink a few gulps of milk to even things out.
Of course that worked about as well as one would expect. Now my tongue has been treated to a frothy concoction of soap, toothpaste, orange juice, milk, morning breath, and stupidity (which, incidentally, were all nicknames I had at some point in high school). Swallowing my pride (and what was probably a lethal combination of chemicals swirling around my palate), I left my crappy apartment to go to my crappy job in my crappy car.
Crap, I'm dumb.
Monday, April 16, 2007
The Cutting Room Floor
Hello friends, it's your ol' buddy Tyler...with some news about his floundering film career.
Well, a couple of months back I participated in a "Public Service Announcement" for the gentlemen at the Washington State Department of Ecology. It was an "anti-litter" campaign, and I was to portray some kind of delivery person. So, of course, I busted out my Uta Hagen, did some intense vocal warm ups, and really dug into the meat of the character I was to portray.
Basically, my detailed character description was as follows: "You're a delivery man. You see some guy about to litter. You stare at him until he decides not to litter."
I decided at that point, in a very Uta Hagen kind of way, to get inside of the head of a delivery person. So I spent the next 50 days shadowing "Terry," a local UPS delivery man. His big ol' brown van was pretty easy to find, as was his home address...spare house key...computer password...favorite bath robe...biggest fears...bank account number...et cetera. I won't bore you with all the details -- let's just say I knew the man very intimately.
After that extensive bit of "character research," I was ready for my 5 seconds of fame. So I show up on the set, decked out in a flashy set of blue "non-descript delivery company" duds. My call time is 9:00 AM, but I decide to show up ass-early, (at about 8:53 AM) so I can prepare myself mentally, physically, emotionally, religiously, harmonically, metaphysically, spiritually, Jennifer Connelly, rock-a-billy, and, most importantly, "hamburgerly" (another Uta Hagen technique, I'm told).
Then, at 9:30 AM, I'm called to the set. In the biting, blistering cold of Ballard, I grit my chattering teeth and give the performance of a lifetime. Spellbinding. Brilliant. Some other word that means "good" and sounds smart. Trust me, I was "off da' hook" (the kids still use that one, right?). Uta Hagen would have said, "Tyler, that was bladdow" (I read that Uta often liked to make up words).
After my "time to shine" on camera had come and gone, I sat around teaching myself how to play Sudoku from 10:30 AM to 4:00 PM. Finally, at 4:30 PM, they decided that they going to do a "master shot" of everyone, and that all the "talent" was dismissed. "Cool beans," (another phrase the kids are still using, yes?) I thought, "I'm off to peel some potatoes and watch Perfect Strangers re-runs." (which is exactly what I did when I got home).
Cut to 3 months or so later. Turns out these PSAs are posted on the internets (HA! It's funnier when you say "Internets" instead of "Internet!" Look how hip and cool I am!). Now, watch closely at my masterful performance:
Dumbest Commercial Ever
Add to My Profile | More Videos
See it? No? Really? Are you sure? Well, don't bother freaking watching it again, because I'm not in it. That's right, they chose the ham-fisted woman, the two old guys, and Mr. "Beady-Eyes Driver Guy" over my one-in-a-million delivery man portrayal. I'm to the left of the old guys...across the street from Mrs. Hams-A-Lot...and just out of frame of every damn shot. It was heartbreaking. Gutwrenching. Some other smart-sounding word that means "bad."
Oh well...I guess I'll always have "A shuttle," right? I was really hoping that I could make the scene as a "popular local Seattle commercial actor." Turns out it was just another pipe dream...like that time I dreamt that I was a plumber.
Well, a couple of months back I participated in a "Public Service Announcement" for the gentlemen at the Washington State Department of Ecology. It was an "anti-litter" campaign, and I was to portray some kind of delivery person. So, of course, I busted out my Uta Hagen, did some intense vocal warm ups, and really dug into the meat of the character I was to portray.
Basically, my detailed character description was as follows: "You're a delivery man. You see some guy about to litter. You stare at him until he decides not to litter."
I decided at that point, in a very Uta Hagen kind of way, to get inside of the head of a delivery person. So I spent the next 50 days shadowing "Terry," a local UPS delivery man. His big ol' brown van was pretty easy to find, as was his home address...spare house key...computer password...favorite bath robe...biggest fears...bank account number...et cetera. I won't bore you with all the details -- let's just say I knew the man very intimately.
After that extensive bit of "character research," I was ready for my 5 seconds of fame. So I show up on the set, decked out in a flashy set of blue "non-descript delivery company" duds. My call time is 9:00 AM, but I decide to show up ass-early, (at about 8:53 AM) so I can prepare myself mentally, physically, emotionally, religiously, harmonically, metaphysically, spiritually, Jennifer Connelly, rock-a-billy, and, most importantly, "hamburgerly" (another Uta Hagen technique, I'm told).
Then, at 9:30 AM, I'm called to the set. In the biting, blistering cold of Ballard, I grit my chattering teeth and give the performance of a lifetime. Spellbinding. Brilliant. Some other word that means "good" and sounds smart. Trust me, I was "off da' hook" (the kids still use that one, right?). Uta Hagen would have said, "Tyler, that was bladdow" (I read that Uta often liked to make up words).
After my "time to shine" on camera had come and gone, I sat around teaching myself how to play Sudoku from 10:30 AM to 4:00 PM. Finally, at 4:30 PM, they decided that they going to do a "master shot" of everyone, and that all the "talent" was dismissed. "Cool beans," (another phrase the kids are still using, yes?) I thought, "I'm off to peel some potatoes and watch Perfect Strangers re-runs." (which is exactly what I did when I got home).
Cut to 3 months or so later. Turns out these PSAs are posted on the internets (HA! It's funnier when you say "Internets" instead of "Internet!" Look how hip and cool I am!). Now, watch closely at my masterful performance:
Dumbest Commercial Ever
Add to My Profile | More Videos
See it? No? Really? Are you sure? Well, don't bother freaking watching it again, because I'm not in it. That's right, they chose the ham-fisted woman, the two old guys, and Mr. "Beady-Eyes Driver Guy" over my one-in-a-million delivery man portrayal. I'm to the left of the old guys...across the street from Mrs. Hams-A-Lot...and just out of frame of every damn shot. It was heartbreaking. Gutwrenching. Some other smart-sounding word that means "bad."
Oh well...I guess I'll always have "A shuttle," right? I was really hoping that I could make the scene as a "popular local Seattle commercial actor." Turns out it was just another pipe dream...like that time I dreamt that I was a plumber.
Saturday, April 14, 2007
A Quick Impression For You...
This is one I've been working on for a while. This is my impression of a cat:
"MEow!"
What do you think? Pretty good? Or needs work?
"MEow!"
What do you think? Pretty good? Or needs work?
Wednesday, April 4, 2007
Love Letters To My Girl
My love for you runs deeper than a fountain…that is deeper than most fountains you'll see in the park and other places. I'd say, something like at least 5 feet deep.
My love for you is brighter than the sun…but not the sun as seen from the earth, because it's not really that bright. But more like the sun really close up. Like, from 100 miles away…in space.
My love for you shines brighter than the sun. Oops…well, I guess "shining" is different from just "being" brighter, so I'm going to stick with it.
My love for you is more colorful than a box of crayons. I'm talking one of those huge boxes…that has, like, 128 colors in it. And a sharpener.
My love for you is sharper than a crayon box sharpener…which isn't even that sharp, actually. No…I'd say my love for you is about as sharp as a really sharp sword. Like a katana.
My love for you is cooler than the moon. I don't mean "cool" as in "temperature," but as in how neat something is. Basically, you're neater than the moon, which is something to be proud of, in my opinion.
My love for you is blacker than the blackest night. Or knight. I'm not touching that one.
My love for you makes me love you so much that I can barely stand up straight. It's either that, or this inner-ear infection that I've been hiding from my parents. But trust me, I totally do love you a bunch.
My love for you stinks like a flower. Ooh…got you with that one, didn't I? Flowers totally smell good. SURPRISE!
My love for you is more fun than 93% of the video games out there.
My love for you could bench press 350 pounds if it were a person, and it could do a long jump of, like, 15 feet.
My love for you uo yrofev Olym. Yeah, that's a palindrome. Sweet.
My love for you knows karate. Not just karate…but…black belt karate.
My love for you is a mutant. But a cool mutant, like the "Teenaged Mutant Ninja Turtles," not like the guy on Total Recall that had that guy in his shirt that turned out to be the leader of the Mars rebellion. I hated that guy. Plus, he stole $20 from me.
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