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:

http://www.thefair.com/puyallup-fair/fair-experience/video.php

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...

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.

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.

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 in Denver. It rules.

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...

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 Aruba.

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?

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!!!!)

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.

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

RANDOMOLOGY.*

Q: First place you went this morning?
Already told you – Jimmy John's Hooker House on Hanover 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.

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.

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!!!

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.