The Bloggy Blogface!

 Look, stop trying to bamboozle me, parmesan garlic popcorn. You inside your violet-colored bag, resting on that top shelf. Top shelf popcorn, you're goddamned right. And you probably deserve it too. I bet you're tasty as hell. I would undoubtedly eat all of you in one sitting, that empty bag collecting dust and dog hairs on the cushion next to mine for the next couple hours. Just inhale all of you, no regrets. All those tiny kernel bits caught in my teeth would totally be worth it. And if you weren't almost four dollars for a bag that's twenty-five percent air, I'd totally buy you - and a few of your friends behind you for that matter. There's something about a bag of snacks costing more than this price point that turns me off from them. For some reason, I set the bar at four bucks. Even when alleged deals are on the table, I'll scoff at the bargain. Two for eight bucks? Hell no. How about two for seven? Still seems excessive. Two for four? Now we're...

   Listen, you aren't the first person to do this, so I don't mean to target you. Or maybe I do, I don't care. Maybe you'll read this. Maybe you can't read. Maybe you, like the others, are just having a very difficult time grasping something that involves such little comprehension. I don't blame you, really. You're probably in a zone. Got all your groceries on the belt and what not. Big ol' tub of butter, bread, some greens, plus a bottle of wine. Just one bottle though! Have to pretend you have it together. But I know better. I know you're wound up so tight that slapping the grocery divider down like a clapperboard is very important to you. Shows you're in charge! And studying the bill screen like a damn hawk as the cashier scans each item tells me you're a penny-pincher extraordinaire. Nothing gets by you. My guess is you also want that border wall built. It's the only logical conclusion I could come to when you emphatically deci...

   I blame a longtime dresser that occupied my bedroom growing up. I remember this dresser because one time, I accidentally left one of the top drawers open, and our first cat managed to jump inside of it. The weight of the cat forced the entire dresser to topple over, banging up against the end of my bed and scaring the crap out of me as I lay there flipping through a magazine. The cat quickly got out once he realized how much peril he was in for, but all of the items that sat on top of the dresser did not make it. Papers, toiletries, loose change spilled all over the bedroom floor. Most of it, naturally, spilled directly under the bed I had to stretch and reach beyond my abilities to retrieve. And of course the cat was completely absolved of this heinous act. Seems like they always are, aren't they? The drawers to this dresser weren't too deep, but there were enough of them to hold all of my clothes. And this was important, seeing how I grew up without a closet. I would...

   The first time I ever heard of this place, its thick paper catalog sat collecting dust on the coffee table. The front cover had a mailing address label with my parent's names on it, slowly peeling away on the bottom corner. Some days it would rest underneath the TV Guide, other days on top of it. Sometimes it would be hidden underneath a pile of that day's two local newspapers, my father having worked for one of them, bringing home the late edition. The catalog always arrived in the early fall, a few months before Christmas. I was six years old when I started flipping through those pages, the freshly-pressed ink bringing all the color photographs to life. What seemed like thousands of vibrant photos on every page came with product descriptions at the bottom. I was captivated by just how much they jam-packed into this catalog, three-hundred pages of almost every marvelous thing. Many things, of course, I did not need. But I wanted. My parents never ordered anything thro...

Netflix stand-up comedy special, or a TED talk? A theatrical introduction, your name voiced by someone else through a loudspeaker, or sung by their charming voice. Arrive onstage through billows of manufactured smoke, maybe rising to the stage deus ex machina style. Wear whatever the hell you want - like denim shorts. A Hawaiian shirt. Leather-looking workout gear. A dress shirt a little too unbuttoned for someone your age. There is wild applause from the completely sold out, cavernous arena or open-air stadium. Most stand, clapping for a solid ninety seconds as if you just saved the world. Greet the raucous crowd by identifying the city you are all in, regardless if many commuted from out of town, yourself included. While greeting the crowd, pace around the stage, maybe clap yourself a little. Look astonished, not humbled. Point into the audience pretending you recognize someone here, or over there, and definitely up there. While pandering, say "yeah" or "w...

   Some of the folks in whatever constitutes my social circle here were born when I started high school. I didn't deliberately mean for this disparity to exist, yet it does. It's really what I get for hanging out with some of the food service people around this town, as they're the clientele other bars tend to see just prior to closing time. More often than not, I'm the oldest one at the table, and maybe the oldest one in the building. For the most part, they're good company. Some have checkered pasts, or however much checkering can be done when you're just twenty-four. Others at the table have led normal, simple lives, and are just trying to find their place in the world. I can identify with that latter group, which explains our compatibility while throwing back pitchers. The good news with this crowd is that many had no idea how old I was, and were surprised when I told them. I guess I'll take that as some sort of compliment. I have always treated ag...

   One of the less depressing stories amid the election aftermath concerns itself where President Obama's family might move to after his tenure ends next month. It appears they will stay in the Washington, D.C. area so that their youngest daughter, Sasha, can finish school. I'm grateful we never had to move when I was a kid. I switched schools often, but never a mailing address. It wasn't until my naive self got to college where I learned more about such normal concepts as split families and military ones that move around often. Sure, I was familiar with those circumstances, but never experienced them firsthand. Everyone was just...married, and there, right where I knew them. Except my late aunt's family. They moved around some, but always stayed within the city limits. Their son, my cousin, never had to transfer schools. He did, however, have to walk to a public school for a few years while living directly across from a private school. At least Sasha Obama doesn...