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.

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






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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.

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?

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.

Happy...but Sad News

Well, I say "sad" news only because it's "sad" how often I blogged way back when I didn't have a full time job.

Which brings me, stumblingly, to the crux of this blog post. I've got a day job now. Doing something-or-other with mortgages...I'm sure it's very important, once I actually figure out what it is. Now, the sad part is the part that's probably only sad for me, and our cats: since I won't be home nearly as much as before, I won't be blogging at the "nearly ripping" pace that I had been previously. Oh, don't worry...I'll still fire off the occasional fascinating review of frozen foods...or a drunken rant about "Archie" comic books (does anyone, seriously, still read those? Anyone?)

So it's "goodbye" for now, but not "goodbye" for now. Wait...I think I said that wrong. It's "goodbye" for now, but "farewell" forever. No, that's not it either. Ick, that sounds like I'm committing suicide, and I'm not...not until they make finally manage to finally make "suicide painless."

But I guess what I'm saying is: sorry. For anyone who actually reads this blog (judging from my crude mathematical equations and my "My Readers" list, it looks like there are about 5 of you...poor souls...), there might be a significantly lower output in the coming months than there had been in the previous four (not like I was freaking Stephen King or anything...but still...I was gettin' the word out there pretty dang good).

So "ta" for now, and if you're craving more writing from me (and why on God's green earth anyone would be doing that is beyond my comprehension), check out my blog archives. You'll find entries ranging from how I fell in love with a woman on a telephone book, to how to how I hate juice, to how I find it's awesome that two professional cheerleaders made out in a bathroom. Riveting stuff, really.

How To Kill A Tyler, in 3 Easy Steps

Step 1: Keep him up until 2:00 AM removing a set after his show has closed.

Step 2: On a "cruelly premature" daylight savings day (the absolute worst day of the year), wake him up at 6:45 AM and tell him to get his running shoes on.

Step 3: Make him run 5 kilometers (which, I believe, converts to 30 miles or so) in the driving wind and rain.


There it is. Now you all have the secret to my untimely demise. Pictures of said torture to follow...

I Have a Confession to Make...

So here's my confessions: sometimes when I blog, I'm not telling the whole truth. I may "fabricate" some things for comedic effect. For instance, I never actually threatened anyone (veiled or otherwise) in my "Friend Drive '07" post. That's what I like to call "comic exaggeration." It's just something I do to make my mundane life sound "fascinating." Also, the post I made about my "Valentines Day" gift to my lady? Well...I didn't actually give any of that stuff to her. In true romantic fashion, I ate it all right after I photographed it. Actually, if I remember correctly, that night we made some boxed noodle dish together, then watched a movie we'd rented, because we both (and I truly love Erika for this) think that Valentines Day is pretty retarded.

But I assure you, nothing in this post is fabricated or exaggerated (including the "currently watching" section. For reals. Shaq is actually "rapping" right now...).

So, giving you this coveted knowledge, I will move forward. Yesterday I had a mantinee performance of Laughter on the 23rd Floor (tickets still available), and the first thing I noticed when I got home was a pleasant aroma. Something along the lines of "cooked food," only better. I was intrigued. I come upstairs to see my woman (pictured below) had not only cleaned our entire living room carpet, but was now tending to three different pans heating on the stove.



Now, normally when I'm presented with a situation like this, I got to jump into action and help out. There's rolls to be toasted...or salad to be mixed...or garlic to be pressed...or something. But no, Erika's got it all under control, and we pass the time talking about how my show went (FYI it went fine. Fine was settled. The show was...fine...)



Finally, what can only be described as a "gourmet meal" is finished. We eat it in front of the TV (reason #4,253 why Erika totally rules), and the menu consists of (and forgive me if I can't come up with "really cool" names for the stuff she put together):

-- Herb salad with homemade vinegarette dressing, carmelized walnuts, and crumbled blue cheese

-- Sauteed chicken breast halves with creamy walnut sauce

-- Buttered cheddar-green onion muffins

-- Fresh peas with sauteed onions and turkey bacon

-- 2005 Snoqualmie Chardonnay



Now, when I tell you that the meal was one of the best I've ever had, you've got to remember the "non-exaggeration" caveat that I placed at the beginning of this blog entry. It was freaking awesome. But in addition to that, it was all "healthy," from some health food magazine.

Then to top it off, the young lady made two dozen peanut butter oatmeal cookies which were served warm with milk (those were not so healthy...but who cares).



(Just to update those that were curious...Kazaam just turned human, and told his master: "You don't need me any more," to which the kid pleaded, "Please, Kazaam...don't leave me!" Heart-wrenching stuff...punched up with a swelling orchestral score)

Now, why would Erika go through all this trouble? Had we just had a fight...or was it a birthday...or an anniversary? Nope. Just a normal Sunday night...and she felt like cooking. I mean...damn, when people ask me, "So, tell me about Erika," I'm not always able to give a coherent response detailing just how amazing this woman is, and I'll end up cracking wise or something. But hopefully, with this post, you've got some idea now just how incredible she is...and that's just the tip of the iceberg, honestly. No exaggeration.