The Bloggy Blogface!

      Summer is about to blitz all up into your glaucoma-ridden eyeballs with lush amounts of sunshine, so you might as well get yourself some shades soon before it's all too late. I've yet to see Noah's Ark these last few days here in upstate New York. I'm expecting to soon, given the gallons of rain we've endured the last few days. The sun has refused to make an an appearance, much like it does here in the fall. Great! More time to do things outdoors before humidity might as well take a rusty jackhammer to my sinuses. The jackhammers wouldn't have been necessary in the great southwest. I'm talking Phoenix. Desert. Sun. Dryness. People that STEAL CARS YOU FUCKING ASSHOL...er, sorry. Anyway, that town was nuts, man. A good nuts. Hot nuts. Yeah, really hot. That's it. That town needed something, man. On one particular newscast, a local station featured an interesting story. A random gal severely disinterested in motherhood decided to say fu...

    I was, to put it mildly, an absolutely disgusting high school cross-country runner. No, disgusting is not slang for good. I mean bad. Real bad. A teammate - who wasn't a very proficient runner himself - often competed in what appeared to be casual street shoes or cross trainers. During some races I finished behind him. This happened for a variety of reasons, none of which have to do with him probably being a better runner than me. The most critical reason why I often found myself in the middle or close to the end of the pack of meet competitors is the fact that at some point during the races, I just stopped caring. I mentally shut down. Gave up. Waved a white flag. Why the hell am I even here? , I'd ask myself. Literally hundreds of runners have passed me already, and I'm barely halfway through. There may have been a race or two where I actually stopped running once we got into the woods and knew there was no chance of anyone seeing me. I'd walk a couple steps,...

     Recently, one of my housemates received a chair in the mail. A 1970's art deco chair, faux-white snakeskin with a chrome bottom. The chair was not in a package, but rather completely assembled. No stickers, no packing slips, nothing attached to it. It sat there right outside the main door, fully put together and just hanging out waiting to be used. Or maybe it was already used? Could whomever delivered a couple Amazon boxes with it have simply been returning the chair, as if they borrowed it? I dragged the boxes and chair inside, perplexed. I sent a picture to my friend, inquiring if he knew anything about the chair. Initially, he did not. A few moments passed where I began to make some sort of connection with the chair. It looked remarkably similar to one of the chairs in my bedroom. In fact, it looked exactly like that chair. What sorcery is this? , I asked myself. Someone did borrow the chair! Could she have just bought the exact same chair? Given the rare s...

     From 2001-03, I called the northwest corner of Louisiana my home. My initial foray into the real world was met with a trip halfway across the country - a trip that consisted of a thirty-six hour bus ride (with plenty of transfers in sketchy towns in between) and a friend in Little Rock who took me the rest of the way to the Pelican State. Prior to this, my only moment spent in the state was interviewing for the position. That was early June, where I hopped aboard a couple planes and was whisked away to campus for hours upon hours of interrogation. The interview process wasn't really that bad, but what was bad was my ill-fated idea to take a walk around campus shortly after the interview ended. I was drenched in sweat upon my return, completely oblivious that the humidity there stuck around much longer than it did back in upstate New York. Regardless, I was in love. I was in love with this idea of continuing (starting, maybe?) my life elsewhere. The first few weeks...

 I guess I'm either just old-fashioned, or an old fart (probably both), but a brief moment during this year's Westminister Kennel Club Dog Show made me cringe for what remains of our culture. Lost among all the captivating bulldogs, dalmatians, sheepdogs and other breeds was the lack of care by some human beings during what should be a considerable duteous moment. The guilty party in question? Some gal in the stands. That's right, in the stands. She had nothing to do with the show at all. Well, she kind of did. She paid her $55.00 to get in and watch all the adorable doggies. Totally worth the cost of admission, sure. But what she did...what...she...did...! Unfortunately I do not have a screen grab of the incident. What I do have, however, is a grab from a sporting event that depicts the exact same thing. Maybe it's the same girl, who knows. Can you spot it? Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not some sort of patriotic nationalist or anything of the sor...

     My horror was brought to life a few short nights ago while shoving appetizers in my face at a fancy chain restaurant. It was at this very place I discovered, to my devastation, the interaction of two gentlemen that defied the laws of the utmost manliest logic. The characters, one bartender and one patron, delivered such a lecherous dialogue that I was almost prompted to ask them to surrender their man cards immediately. The gorging commenced in style, casually nibbling on all the delicious hopefully-not-microwaved offerings of boneless wings, spinach dip, and washing it all down with a couple Blue Moons. The patron, an older mustached fellow, apparently had been there for a couple hours, enjoying himself while waiting for dinner to be served. He was quite chatty with a friend who sat next to him briefly, but eventually the friend parted. This left our loquacious protagonist with our trusty bartender, a seemingly late twenty-something guy with considerable ink o...

Eyeballs are very dumb. Mostly in how we have to take care of them. Such a drag. Most of us have two of them, and that's pretty awesome. Some of us only have one, and that's still okay. Maybe more honorable, depending on how you only have just the one. Some of us have none, and that's both unfortunate and perhaps honorable, again depending on the back story. Above all, eyeballs are just stupid. Yeah, I'm talking to you, eyeballs. You and your gross composition of fluids and membranes and rods and cones and photoreceptor cells. I hate touching you. In fact, I can't even touch you. It freaks me the hell out, much like touching soft foam does. Nobody touches you. Not even the eye doctor lady trying to put contacts in for the very first time. That experience lasted roughly forty seconds until I was slumped on the floor outside of the bathroom, my brain and stomach nauseous from the mere idea of someone touching my eyeball. You literally make me sick just thinking a...