Tee Totalling

Within the framework of this blog (as well as in real life) I’ve often lamented the loss of style in the modern world.  I’ve droned about hipsters, men without hats, pomades, etc. but must admit that there’s one item of casual dress that I wholeheartedly embrace:  the time-honored tradition of the T-Shirt.  I am such a fan that I must periodically return to my overstuffed t-shirt drawer and begin the painful process of weeding my collection of ratty, threadbare shirts.  It’s horrible.  I hate getting rid of my treasures.  So much so that I clutch tenaciously and feverishly to at least two different favorites, and in reality there are way too many.  Once as black as the darkest night, now they’re sort of light charcoal, and so theadbare and worn that when held to the light they resemble some loosely-woven mesh.  Cheesecloth, maybe.

However, the field must be tilled ever so often and fresh soil risen up to the daylight.  That’s what I do.  I churn my shirts, so to speak, and the ones that haven’t been seen since last summer are the first to go.  This process brought some old memories to mind, specifically thoughts of old t-shirt fads long gone.  Today’s Realtree fad will soon fade, and hopefully those ubiquitous “KEEP CALM AND BLAH BLAH BLAH” shirts will disappear from public consciousness, at least until the great retro 2010’s craze of 2025 rolls around, at which point reproductions will fly off the shelves again.   Certainly some trends will continue as they always have: throwback soda and candy logos, band tees, beer and sports teams…these will never perish from the chests of frat boys, hipsters, and concert-going blue-collar types. Ever.

The same can’t be said for these bygone relics…

 

Big Johnson

Technically, these shirts were introduced in the late-80’s, but they really seemed to take off circa Spring Break 1994.  Seriously, you couldn’t go to to the mall, the sports bar, or the beach without seeing some dude with a Big Johnson shirt.  The whole gag consisted of thinly-veiled sexual innuendos, like “Big Johnson Surf Boards…If It Swells, Ride It!” or “Big Johnson’s Casino…Liquor Up Front, Poker In The rear!”  They seem dated now, and the jokes are so stale they’re probably made of the same material as your basic M.R.E.  But the catchphrases were brand-new at the time, and twenty-something bros found them hilarious.  I mean, who can argue with this gem?

Subtlety.  A lost art.

Subtlety. A lost art.

 

Hard Rock Cafe

This one makes me a bit sad.  The Hard Rock Cafe still exists and seemingly thrives, most notably the casinos in Las Vegas and Atlantic City, as well as vacation destinations such as Myrtle Beach and exotic Detroit.  However, the corporation seems to be just as dedicated to spreading the good old-fashioned American rock-n-roll experience to the rest of the unwashed world, with locations in Jakarta, Angkor, and Phuket (how that never made it to a Big Johnson shirt, I’ll never know) in addition to European strongholds like Oslo and Amsterdam, because there’s nothing else to do in Amsterdam, right?  Duh! The sad part is how the internet and cable television have sort of taken the mystery and adventure out of seeking out a place to get over-priced (but still pretty tasty) burgers whilst surrounded with all sorts of rock-n-roll memorabilia.  I remember sitting in the New York Hard Rock (see, that even sounded cool in 1988), scarfing down a burger and Dr. Pepper, while overhead loomed the awesome, gnarly axe-shaped bass guitar of the God of Thunder himself, Gene Simmons.  Nowadays, I can go on Ebay and shell out some hard-earned PayPal cash and own the sonofabitch.  (The axe, not Gene Simmons, although if the price were right…)  I could also order a Hard Rock t-shirt from the comfort of my living room, and never have to spend time at an airport or drive the six-plus hours to Toronto’s Skydome (that’s what they used to call Rogers Centre) to get the same exact shirt I picked up there in 1991.  The excitement, the discovery, the Kerouac-like feeling of literally being on the road, going somewhere; maybe somewhere you’ve never been.  The pride you felt when you pulled the shirt on and left your apartment and somebody read the words “Hard Rock Cafe Miami” and met your eyes with a look of envy and wanderlust.  Those days are over.  Thanks a lot, stupid fucking internet.

The SkyDome logo had a snappy, ultra-modern redesign.  This was it.  No, really.

The SkyDome logo had a snappy, ultra-modern redesign. This was it. No, really.

 

Hypercolor

I must admit that I was never cool enough to own a Hypercolor t-shirt.  Apparently, I was the only human in North America that walked the streets with a regular old shirt that didn’t change color when someone held their hand on it for like five minutes.  For the uninitiated, the whole gimmick was due to a revolutionary dye that changed tint when it experienced a change in temperature.  You’d put on a purple shirt in the coolness of your bedroom, go out to catch the bus in 80-degree weather and MOTHER OF GOD!!  MY SHIRT IS NOW RUSTY ORANGE!  Then they got tricky and started printing the damn things in tie-dye patterns, so it was a swirling cauldron of ambiguous chromatics, dizzying and dazzling onlookers and passers-by.  “WHO IS HE?!  A WEATHER-LORD OF TIME AND SPACE?!?  ONE OF ELTON JOHN’S BAND MEMBERS?!  YE GODS, LOOK AT HIS MAGICAL ATTIRE!  BEHOLD HIS COMING!”  Plus, yeah; when someone gave you a hug, you could totally see where they put their arms around you.  Show-off motherfuckers, gettin’ hugs and shit.  Some bullshit, right there.

Show me on the shirt where he touched you...

Show me on the shirt where he touched you…

 

I know I’m leaving some out.  I decided against the brand-name trends, like United Colors of Benetton, Gotcha!, et al., because that sort of thing is in constant flux.  Remember when a couple of years ago you saw FUBU everywhere?  Yeah.  But hey, feel free to suggest others in the comments section.  Especially you youngsters that might remember stuff from the turn of the century that old guys like me sort of missed. (Those shirts Guy Fieri wears, for example.)  On second thought, nobody mention Guy Fieri.  The rest is fair game.  And as always, thanks for reading.

 

Everything’s Cool.

I was going to call this post “Everything’s Cool, and That Ain’t Cool” or steal from Pearl Jam and say “Everything Has Changed; Absolutely Nothing’s Changed.”  But there’s really not a whole lot of negative to my thoughts on this subject, so I figured I’d leave it with the simple, hopeful, calming “Everything’s Cool.”  Because it is.  Literally.

There was an article earlier this year in Vanity Fair that basically said that stylistically we’re exactly the same as we were in 1992…twenty years ago.  The article points out that the styles of 1952 were vastly different from those of 1962, and those were different from 1972, and all of ’em were nothing like the fashions of 1982, and so on.  Basically, every ten years there’s a new way of doing things, and from car designs to clothing to music. There’s a big change with each passing decade.

Except, you know, Steve Jobs.

Not anymore.  According to the article, we’re stuck in a stylistic wormhole, reliving the same things for twenty years.  My initial reaction to this reality is:  Um…so?

In this very blog I’ve mentioned how cool it is that I can, in this 21st century, elect to wear a wide-brimmed Fedora and listen to Operation Ivy on my way home from seeing “The Avengers” in IMAX to play Black Ops II on my HD television before switching over to TCM and watching “Invasion of the Saucer Men” or settling in for a night of Star Trek (the original series) on Netflix or reading The Dark Tower.  I mean, I can literally do whatever I want from whichever time I choose.  Music, books, movies, television, fashion…all mediums and all genres and all styles and so on have been archived so well over the ages that we now have the sum of EVERYTHING THAT HAS EVER HAPPENED at our fingertips.  That’s very powerful.  I can pick up a Nook or an iPad or whatever and read Chaucer or George R.R. Martin.  I can look at sketches and read translations from Copernicus or “A Brief History of Time” by Hawking.  That is so incredible.

Or hell, combine the two! Save time!

As for fashion, I’ve kind of developed the following philosophy regarding trends in fashion:  FUCK FASHION.  Have I been caught up in one trend or another over the years?  Sure.  And anyone who says otherwise is lying.  I rocked a blazer with a t-shirt during the early-2000’s.  But you know what I realized?  I also rocked that look in the early-90’s.  I was too young to really rock a blazer in the 80’s, when that seemed like the thing to do (thanks, Miami Vice!) but I’m sure I would’ve.  Also, that style combo wasn’t born in the 80’s anyway.  You know who started the shirt-sans-tie/blazer combo?  Jed fucking CLAMPETT, that’s who.

Well, I reckon it ain’t lupus! Can’t rightly figure what in tarnation it is, though.

I love this outlook in current trendy fashion.  Quick:  what’s the popular male hairstyle called these days?  Is it the high-top fade? The buzz-cut? The side part? The pomp? The shag? I’ve seen every one of those at the mall in the last few months.  What the hell is that mullet-shaven-skater cut that Skrillex is rocking?  Who knows?  More importantly, WHO CARES?!? Hell, I’ll make the question easier:  what’s the trendy female hair style?  Or hair color?  The bob?  The pixie?  The Rachel? (remember that?  Everyone wanted hair like the characters on Friends!)  In a world where Miley Cyrus goes with a near-buzz cut and one out of every four chicks sports either that bright fuchsia color (sometimes just highlights) or wears shiny blue extensions, I suppose anything goes here, too.  Katy Perry wears blue or pink wigs. Rockabilly chicks sport sleeve tattoos and Bettie Page ‘dos. The Katniss braid shows up here and there.  Short, sexy, sassy haircuts mingle with luxurious manes of auburn curls.  It’s literally all good, and it seems that for once (I am an outsider here, so forgive my naiveté) women are genuinely excited to see/meet someone with a strikingly different hair style than their own.  “Oh my GOD!!  I love you hair!!  Who does it?!?”  seems to have replaced “Uh, the 80’s called and they want their bangs back.” That’s so nice.

Just…so much…HAIR…

Sometimes I wear a suit.  Like, a real suit and a tie.  Sometimes I wear shorts and a hockey jersey (sidebar:  nobody cares about you anymore, NHL.  Not many people did before, but now?  Forget it.  You’ve effectively fucked yourself after an amazing playoffs including a first-ever Stanley Cup awarded to a team in the SECOND-LARGEST TELEVISION MARKET IN THE UNITED STATES!  Good job, assholes.  You all suck.  Owners, players, etc.)  Sometimes I wear a “Portal” t-shirt and some jeans.  Now and then, a baby-blue guayabera shirt and some linen pants.  And any time I wear one of these wardrobes in public, it’s like I don’t even get a second glance.  I love second glances, because I crave attention. It’s becoming harder and harder for me to glean that oh-so-wonderful attention simply based on my clothing alone.  Now I must stand in the middle of the Glenbrook Mall food court wearing nothing but an old Chick-Fil-A napkin that I’ve poked a hole in with my pecker (see, the napkin is impaled on my business) and a beaver-skin hat that I’ve set on fire before anyone even nods knowingly at me, like they’re in on some sort of joke.  I must essentially be a one-man flash mob these days.  It’s too much work.  And the reason for that is that anything goes.  Really.  Literally. Anything. Wife-beater-wearing women, utilikilt sporting fellas, old-school Mod Cloth dresses and slinky tube skirts.  Flat-brimmed caps with the sticker on ’em and tweed newsboy caps.  High-top Chuck Taylors, black Doc Martens, leather flip-flops, two-tone wingtips, alligator skin stiletto heels. Faded blue denim jackets, Hurley hoodies, Dickies work jackets, stoner-riffic bajas. Flannel shirts, athletic-fit moisture-wicking polos, pearl-snap western shirts.  All of it.  It’s all good.  Some of it has changed very little in the last twenty years.  Some of it hasn’t changed at all in fifty years.  Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that.

Sigh. It’s not a chihuahua skirt, goddammit!!

Except, of course, for one tiny little issue.  The idea that maybe, just maybe…the reason that anything goes right now is that, well…there just aren’t any more ideas.  Nothing new.  We’ve reached the end, and so now we just recycle everything that’s already come to pass.
This theory is supported, of course, by looking at our popular entertainment choices.  Hollywood is staggeringly bad, simply re-hashing or re-booting old films instead of offering original, entertaining fare.  Another option, of course, is taking old television shows and making them into movies.  Then again, looking at the television itself and seeing recycled shows like “Hawaii 5-0” and “Dallas” and you realize that we are indeed pretty much done giving a shit.  Musically, things are as bad as they were in the woeful 1985-1991 time period, when the likes of Foreigner and Boston walked the Earth side-by-side with atrocious crap like Every Hair Metal Band.  At least then we felt like something was coming.  Something new and slightly dangerous was bubbling up and threatening to upset the entire music industry.  I just wish I believed that something like the Grunge Revolution was going to happen again.  ‘Cause I’ll tell y’all right now, the answer ain’t dubstep.

This image speaks for itself.

In the meantime, I suppose I’ll just have to make do. I’ll avoid the Red Dawn remake like the plague, but revel in the fact that my black leather Brando-style motorcycle jacket will always be cool.  Unlike Crocs and Affliction shirts.  Seriously, that crap is stupid.  Stop it.

What Exactly Do You Want, Anyway?

Hey, gang!  You may not know it, but this page is officially over a year old now.  Yep.  And when you reach those kind of milestones, you sort of take inventory of what you’ve got and what you’ve wrought (RHYME!!  YEAH!!) So I recently had me an idea.  I was going to split this blog up and do two separate pages.  One would be my usual sci-fi, comic book, geektastic blog and the other would be the one where I tackled more serious subjects like war and quantum physics.  Both would be rich in that good ol’ Turner Watson humor and irony (and I mean RICH!!) and have plenty of misspellings and run-on sentences.  Seriously, it’s kind of a fun little game to play when I publish a new post:  Spot The Bad Stuff!  Sigh.  I know, I know.I thought better of it.  The splitting-up idea.  The thing is, this little craptastic bullhorn of mine is different things to different people, and if I can turn the guy who’s here to read about Dazzler’s first appearance in X-Men on to some serious old-school pomade and style tips, then I’ve done my job! 

I have totally just confused the rockabilly set.

So after deciding to scrap the break-up, I looked at my search stats again.  This is one of my favorite quick-and-dirty blog topics, as some of you already know.  It’s still fun and often mind-boggling to see the search terms that have led people here.  Search engines have been responsible for 17,308 visits to my site. Since it’s kind of a one-year anniversary special, here are some of the all-time search results which were responsible for people clicking on this page.  Number one surprised me a bit…

Raise your hand if you want four more years of Obama!
D’OH!!

Grammar Nazi.  This search is number one with a staggering 1,238 searches.  This does not include the variants thereof, like the ironic “grammer nazi” with 54 searches or “grammarnazi” with 42.  Wow.  I did ONE BLOG on that subject, but obviously it was something on everyone’s mind this year.  Okay then. What could possibly be Number Two on the search list?

Oh, hey! Wouldja look at that!

Amish. The irony, of course, is that the Amish are not allowed to use the internet.  HA!  JOKE’S ON YOU, BEARDY-STRAW-HAT-BOY!! Also, there were eight searches for “amišai” that led to my page.  Apparently, that’s a Lithuanian word for “Amish.”  True story.  Lithuanian people are searching for first-hand accounts of the mysterious Amišai and finding their way here.  And to them I would say “Dėkojame, Lietuvos žmonių!”

This is actually getting kinda fun.

Carrot Top and fake tans account for a good chunk of search-term visits, but there’s ONE particular post that has had enough disparate searches combined that it ends solidly in third place. Ladies and gentlemen, the Big Bang Theory.  For the uninitiated, I’m not referring to the actual theory that attempts to explain the first moments of our universe, but rather the mediocre television show that attempts to describe (and bring about) the end of geek culture.  There has been SOOOOO much hate, praise and discussion of this stinking turd of sitcomdom on sites like Reddit that I suppose it was only natural that some of those curious parties would find their way to my fetid little swamp of cyberdom.  In fact, just on this post alone, there have been 7,364 pageviews.  This is not including the people that came in through the “front door” and then clicked on that blog.  I’d post the numbers but am already patting myself heartily on the back, so more ego-stroking isn’t necessary anyway.  But, wow…talk about hitting a nerve!  That’s why I do this shit, you know.  I’d really suggest EVERYONE get their own blog and say whatever you want.  It’s like Facebook but with fewer things that you can share or “like” if you hate breast cancer or Chick-Fil-A.

Okay, maybe I’m getting a little carried away…

Finally, I have to give you mad props.  Yes, you.  You know who you are.  You’ve shared this blog from your Facebook a grand total of 10,838 times.  Wow. Reddit is responsible for 5,492 referrals, and your Twitter shares put 676 butts in the seats, so to speak.  StumbleUpon, WordPress itself, hell even the website of my of employers, 98.9 the Bear helped out.  Outstanding and wonderful.  Thanks again for those wonderful numbers, but thanks even more for reading.  Expect my next post to be about “Fake-Tanned Nickelback Guest-starring On the Amish Bang Theory.”  Can’t miss.

Ooo, That Smell…

Mmmmm!  Cookies!

There aren’t really any cookies, mind you.  It was a trick.  A ruse.  I wanted you to start imagining fresh-baked cookies.  Sugar cookies, chocolate chip…those peanut butter ones that mom used to kind of press down on with a fork to make the crisscross hashmarks…doesn’t matter.  Because odds are you did think of cookies and there’s a chance that you thought of specific cookies.  That’s because the sense of smell is one powerful motherfucker and we totally take it for granted.  Also, smart people claim that it’s the sense most keenly tied to memory.  That girl you fell for that one crazy spring break?  You know her smell.  And it’s not just perfume and hair conditioning cream and fabric softener…it’s the sum of all of that and more.  It works the other way, too…that bitch from accounting that thought Obsession was the greatest fragrance EVAH?!?!  ERMAHGERD!!  You know, the one who you could literally smell as she got out of her car in the goddam parking lot?!  Yeah.  Now, no matter who’s wearing that particular perfume, you somehow know upon meeting them that you hate them a little bit.

Unless they look like this. I mean, c’mon…it’s just horrible, eye-burning, nostril-scorching perfume, right?

It works for things, too.  Things like tequila. You have a bottle of it, puke your guts out, and then the next time you’re out someone offers you a shot and you respond with (all together now!) “Dude, no.  I can’t even SMELL that stuff without puking.”    See, it’s science!  Your body has conditioned itself to avoid certain harmful substances, and tequila is certainly a harmful substance.  You’ll smell it before you taste it or even see it, because your sniffer works pretty damn good despite being less important now than it was six million years ago.  Good job, nostrils!

So here, then, are some of my FAVORITE smells.  Good ones.  Happy ones.  Scents that take me immediately to a happy place.  Like the beach, for example…

Surf Wax

Specifically, Sticky Bumps original surf wax.  Sure, Sex Wax is the one everyone talks about because the 80’s.  But this is the stuff, along with the occasional Mrs. Palmer’s, that made it onto my deck all the time, especially on the longboard.  The way it bumped up (hence the name) without having to go over it again and again was, well…magic.  But the SMELL!!  Imagine a tropical drink that featured coconut, vanilla, and blueberries.  Imagine your truck being filled with that awesomeness on the way to the beach, and then on you after laying on it and rubbing against it all day.  Wow, I just turned myself on a little bit.  Awesome.  I had some friends send me a few bars of this stuff a year or so ago even though I am currently land-locked with NO chance of surf.  But when I want to take a break and hit the beach, I take a good long pull off o’ one of these babies and I’m instantly there, even if only for a moment. 

Seriously, these stickers and that ‘Oakley Thermonuclear Protection’ shit…everywhere. The 80’s kinda sucked.

On the other end of the spectrum…

Ice Rink

This is one of those “greater than the sum of its parts” deals.  Yes, the actual ice itself is amazing.  Remember Doug Dorsey smelling the ice in The Cutting Edge?  That shit is legit, yo.  But it’s more than that for me.  The mouldy foam flooring, the hockey pucks…a new roll of hockey tape…the slightly sickening burning smell of someone heating up their stick blade along with the singed smell of the glue as it pops free…beer…all of it.  Any hockey player knows how comforting it is to get to a new rink in a new town and instantly know you’re at peace as soon as you walk in.  It’s a little like heaven.

These, however, smell HORRIBLE.

Patchouli (Yes, Patchouli) and Leather

I know.  Trust me, I know.  Hippies have ruined this for sooooo many people.  That’s because hippies don’t know that you’re only supposed to put a tiny pinpoint of this stuff on each wrist then rub them together.  That’s it.  That’s plenty. Those dirty bastards ladle it on by the gallon.  When so applied, it smells much like I imagine the Devil’s asshole must.  Horrible.  However, when I was a lad, it was the general scent of the counter-culture.  You’d smell it at punk shows, at Lollapalooza, the cool alternative bookstore (COUGH! The Abyss COUGH!) and so on.  The cool thing is, we all wore the standard Ramones-issue black leather motorcycle jacket.  Now, leather smells really good, especially new black leather.  Add just a hint of that hippie-juice and marinate for a few shows and smell your jackets wrist-holes.  Holy Mary, but that shit’s good.  It also happens to be the perfect example of how two different cultures can compliment each other in the right proportions.  But seriously, fuck you, hippies.

I seriously had to scour Google images to find a stock photo of a hippie and a punk together. Now to crop out the confused sick boy…

Murray’s Pomade

Let’s just address the elephant in the room right now.  This smells like black folks.  It does.  I’ve always loved this baby-powder-meets-honey-and-vanilla scent, but until I got older and started actually using it, I was just always envious of black folks and how good most of them smelled.  (Like any of us need to be any MORE envious of the fact that our Nubian brothers and sisters will ALWAYS be cooler than white folks, Iggy Pop and Henry Rollins excluded.)  But man, I don’t care if I’m using this stuff on short hair to mess it up (like white folks do) or part or pomp it up (like white folks used to do) I love the smell.  No lie, I’ll sometimes open the orange tin (a lifetime supply!) and get a big whiff of it to carry me through the day.  There are other great-smelling hair care products…Dax Wave-n-Groom smells a bit like Murray’s, and if you add a topcoat of Tres Flores Brilliantine, you get a sublime mish-mash of powdery, waxy, wonderful-smelling awesomeness.  Good God, I want to eat my own hair now.  It’s that fucking good.  I’m waiting on a response from Jan Hella over at The Rebel Rouser to hear what his favorite pomade scent is.  If Murray’s doesn’t finish in the top-three, I’ll be sorely disappointed.

Ladies and gentlemen, something most of us will never see: the bottom of a tin of Murray’s. It’s…it’s beautiful…

Like/dislike

Hey, gang.  I promise to write another lengthy piece for you soon, because who doesn’t like a lengthy piece, amirite?  But whilst sitting with my three-year-old in the plastic, filthy, smelly, greasy HELL that is the McDonald’s playland, it occurred to me that, dog-gone-it, there are some things that I just don;t like.  But like they taught you in physics class, every action has an equal and opposite reaction.  Herein lies the lesson for today.

 

STUFF I LIKE!!

Calling the evening meal “supper” instead of “dinner.”

People who say “cock-a-roach” and “robut” and “sangwich” for the words cockroach, robot, and sandwich, respectively.  Usually these tend to be old people, and I quite enjoy old people.

Star Trek, and by only the slightest fraction of a degree less, Star Wars.  Add to this Firefly and the first Matrix.

Spider-Man and the X-Men.  Call me crazy, but Marvel knew what they were doing when they started making troubled teen superheroes.

Converse All-Stars.

Wearing a hockey jersey…and shorts.

Rational arguing with smart people who don’t share my views.  Good God, there’s nothing better than a good debate, as long as it doesn’t devolve into Facebook name-calling and TEA PARTY!!  FUCK OBAMA!  DERP-titude.

Winter becoming spring and summer becoming autumn.

The smell of surf wax and surf shops in general.  Also, the smell of hockey tape and the general smelliness of hockey.

To crush my enemies. To see them driven before me. And to hear the lamentations of their women.  And jambalaya.  Oh, boy, do I love some good jambalaya.

ANYTHING by Chris VanGompel.  Hockey Zombie, The Mario Brothers, TNT the Comic, etc.  Dude’s brilliant, and I am glad to call him my friend.

Does it make a lick of sense? No. Do I love it more than life itself? Yes.

 

STUFF I DISLIKE!!

Dudes (usually dads) that wear denim jeans shorts.  Please stop.  It is 100% worse if you also have a polo shirt tucked into it.  You make us dads look really horrible.

Ranch dressing. Seriously, Midwestern people…you’ve got to put down the ranch.  Try some Italian or balsamic vinaigrette.  Please.

College football.  I don’t hate it, mind you, I just don’t give a shit.  Also?  Golf.  I’ve played it.  Meh.

People that wear running or athletic shoes in their daily routine.  You can’t do that and be part of my society.  Wear some Chucks, some Vans, some Sambas, or some flip-flops unless you’re going to work, then have some nice wingtips or something.  Dude.

The Christian Taliban.  You know these types.  They’re beyond conservative and too crazy for the Tea Party.  They want Sharia Christian Law to govern our daily lives.  Too bad, because I drink, smoke, and masturbate, and will continue to do so.  Hell, I might perform an abortion just on principle.  Fuck, this group makes me angry.

Superman.  Really, I get it.  He’s fighting for truth, justice, and the American way (yeah, FUCK YOU, NORTH KOREA!!  EAT MOAR DOGS!!  HHAHAHAHALOLOLOL!!) But, c’mon.  Dude’s been around too long and, oh yeah: he’s invincible.  I hate that about him.

When I go to write with my ball-point pen and it’s not clicked into the “ready” position and I scrape bare pen-plastic against the paper…GAAAAAHHHHHHH!!! I fucking HATE THAT!!

Stuff that “tastes” like peanut butter.  Peanut butter “flavouring.”  Bullshit.  It tastes like a goddam dollop of almond butter with all the sugar in it.  All. The. Sugar.  Or it’s like you took a hairdryer to the peanut butter and made it into some sort of peanut lint.  Gawd-awful, is what it is.

Don't care whatchamacallit, as long as you don't call it "peanut butter" or "edible." Thanks.

 

STUFF I HONORABLY MENTION!!

Okay, I didn’t mention hipsters.  Of course I don’t like them.  Nobody does.  I figured it was a given.  Also, I failed to bring up ice cream for the exact opposite reason.  I mean, really…ice cream.  Ever been to a birthday party where they just had cake and no ice cream?  Remember how disappointed you were?  Exactly.

Also, it looks like I have more “likes” than “dislikes.”  I am a pretty positive person after all!  Yay, me!

 

Clearance Sale! EVERYTHING MUST GO!!

Just looking through my notes as I prepare the next “themed” blog and realized there’s some stuff that I wanted to include in other posts, but for whatever reason did not.  So ima dump it in herrrr and if you like it, great.  It’s like that box of 50%-off stuff at the front of the Goodwill store.  Think about that: it’s stuff nobody wanted, so they gave it to Goodwill.  And then Goodwill couldn’t get rid of it.  Dayum.  So, yeah…this one’s going to be sort of catch-as-catch-can. (I’M SO GODDAM FUNNY!!)

You know what I realized about penises the other day?  We often see large male members as a symbol of male dominance.  You hear it all the time “Oh, they’re just arguing over who has the biggest dick.  Soon they’ll get over it and grab some beers.”  Corporate promotion, sports teams…it’s all about the junk.  But here’s the flaw in that logic.  The dominant male in a tribe/group was the one that got to lay down wit all the ladies back in tha day, y’all.  And in so doing, he passed his genetic code on to multiple offspring. To the victor goes the spoils, bitch!  Aw, yeah!  Okay then: the most dominant, powerful males had kids that resembled them, yes?  If that’s the case, then you could argue that whatever size his pork sword was, his offspring would share a similar set of dimensions?  And further, that would be the most common type of penis, as those are the genes that exponentially get spread around, correct?  Then I put it to you that the dominant males did NOT have giant peckers. They COULDN’T have, as  BIG MAN MEAT would then be the standard, rather than the exception.  Yep, our forefathers were hung like fruit flies.  Their intellect and cunning, along with the ability to network socially (um, before Facebook like) were factors in their leadership, and as a result their offspring were smarter, etc and so the primitive brain was overtaken by the bigger, faster model and voila!  We’re using tools, building houses, and planting crops!  All thanks to small-prick-itis!!  Likewise, men with huge, engorged, throbbing tools are more like cro-magnons. Simple.  Animalistic.  And yes, chicks would still rather bang them.  Sorry.  Something about it feeling better or whatever.

Okay, this theory needs some work.

While I’m appealing to your baser instincts, may I also propose a replacement for the time-honored tradition of “The Handshake?”  Handsakes are unsanitary.  Plus, you always run into one of two types of people:  the “I have a MASSIVELY STRONG GRIP, WHICH IS A SIGN OF MY SUPERIOR MANHOOD AND NOTHING AT ALL TO DO WITH MY PENIS AND NO, PAL, I’M SURE NO NANCY-BOY AND I’LL LET YOU KNOW ALL ABOUT IT AS I STARE INTO YOUR EYES TO GAUGE YOUR REACTION TO MY SUPERIOR CRUSHING ABILITY!!” person and the “my hand is really a dead lake trout wrapped in a soggy Kleenex” corpse-grip person.  Fffffuuuuu…

Anyway, I propose to introduce the Assgrab as the new way of greeting friends and strangers (remember, a stranger is a friend whose ass you’ve yet to grab!)  And here are some reasons why:

1) It IS more sanitary, unless neither of you is wearing pants.

2) It is one hell of an ice breaker.  Seriously, all pretense is gone when you have a handfull of someone else’s glutes.

3) In a business sense, it literally lets you feel out the competition.  “Oooo, his ass is flabby.  A soft desk-job guy.  But that could also mean he’s in the IT department or is busy coding all day.  Might be a hidden asset.” (I really resisted making an “ass-et” joke there.  Oh, crap, I did it anyway.) “Hmm…her ass is rock-hard, and she’s not even flexing.  I’ll bet she’s a no-nonsense slave driver.  I need people like that on my team.”  See?  It would also encourage fitness!  No one wants to be seen as soft or pliable.  Added bonus?  Chaps without pants would be considered acceptible Casual Friday attire.

Oh, crap...it's the boss. Look busy!

I have two boys.  I keep them entertained with my iPod.  Yes, I have an Android phone.  I also have an LG Optimus which I got to replace my old phone which was destroyed at a rockabilly show.  That’s how I roll. Let’s move on. This explains why sometimes my Tweets are fubar. I have a friend (we’ll call him “Kyle”) who works for an online retailer/geek culture social hangout place (we’ll call it “J!NX.“)  Anyway, “Kyle” loves to bust my chops about how terrible I am at Tweeting.  Like, literally.  It’s not the content (okay, sometimes it’s the content) but more stuff like the iPod correcting “shit” as “shot” and so on.  It’s tough constantly switching between two different OS’s, especially when you’re got two kids fighting over who gets to play “Angry Birds Rio.”

I should really be charging for this shit.

Anyway, I use my iPod a lot for dicking around at home or wherever there’s WiFi. This is why I delete my history often.  My kids don’t need to accidentally experience “My Friend’s Hot Mom” when they’re trying to watch “Adventure Time” clips. That’s another reason why I download crap games: keep my litle bastards off the web.  When you get an iPod or iPhone or iPad (or similar Windows or Android-based items!) one of the first things that happens to your mind is  a desire to GRAB EVERYTHING YOU CAN FROM THE APP STORE!!  It’s like being at Food Lion before a hurricane, fer crissakes…pulling stuff off the virtual shelves that you’ll NEVER need, and prolly won’t even use after the first week.  I  had a “Steel Drums of Tobago” app.  When you tapped the little steel drums, it made, um, steel drum music.  But I don’t know how to play the steel drums,  so it sounded like a fucking mouse crawling around with a cowbell tied to one of its hind legs. BING! BUNG!  BING! BING! BONG-BING!

See? What's not to get?

There was another app called, I believe, “Shark Tank.”  It was like a mini-aquarium with some CG sharks swimming around.  You could feed them chum.  You could, for some reason, shock them with a cattle-prod. You could turn the Jaws-like theme music off. That was it.  Seriously, I HAD THIS ON MY iPOD!!  Of course, this was a couple of years ago when literally 75% of apps in the App Store were designed to make your phone sound like a shotgun or lightsaber.  We’ve moved beyond that.  We’re more productive than that.  We’re better than that, and so are our mobile devices.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must accept this invitation to play “Hangin’ With Friends.”

Old-Timey Movie-time Time! (Part One)

If you know me, you know I dig old stuff.  And I mean OOOOOLLLLLDDDD stuff.  Sure, I have a brand new grey felt Fedora on the way (thanks, ma!) and am a certifiable Dapper Dan man.  I don’t want “Fop” goddammit!.  This led me to a realization the other day.  People stopped wearing hats for a while.  I don’t mean “caps” like the ones worn by baseball players and hip-hop DJ’s.  I mean “hats.”  Fedoras, Bowlers, the odd Fez…hats, boys, hats! The kinds worn by men!  Real men who fought Nazis and stopped the spread of Communism!  Hats, I say! Anyway, recently the trend has started reversing itself.  Thanks in large part to Justin Timberlake and the P. Diddy set, stingy-brimmed fedoras and pork pies have moved from the fringes of hipsterdom into the mainstream.   Hell, you can get a decent lid at Wal Mart, fer gawd’s sake.  For too long Indiana Jones and Mythbusters’ Adam Savage were the only dudes you regularly saw sporting a hat with any sort of brim.  And frankly, that ain’t enough.

Feast your eyes, ladies!

And there’s a very simple reason for this trend:  hair.  Rather, hair care products.  See, Don Draper got guys interested in the side-part again.  AXE even makes a variety of pomades for the gentlemen among us to slick or comb their hair like, well…gentlemen.  Who wants to go to all the trouble of either spiking up their ‘do like it’s 1998 or crafting a painstakingly messy look out of putty and wax only to either REALLY mess it all up or even worse…GASP…cover it up with a hat?!?  Madness!

"Sorry, I can't talk right now. I've got douchebag stuff to do."

And suits…boy, do I love suits! Of course, I work as a retarded morning show rock radio DJ, so I rarely have to wear them.  That’s why I like playing dress-up.  Remembering how to tie a tie is always a great adventure!  It usually ends with me standing in front of a mirror for fifteen minutes trying to get the skinny back portion of the tie to not be eight inches longer than the front before I say “fuck it…I’m wearing a vest anyway.”  Yes, the suit is awesome.  It makes you look smart, older, respectable, classy…all the things my old Rancid t-shirt or Edmonton Oilers jersey fail to convey.  Why, with my tattoos all covered up I look a proper gentlemen!  Like a dad or something!  And let’s be honest…if you’re going to drink a martini (Bombay Sapphire for me, please) or scotch on the rocks,  a suit makes it so much better.  The inverse of this is also true:  if you have a three-piece suit and fedora, I’d best not catch you drinking draft Bud Light out of a goddam plastic cup.  I’ll box your ears, young man!

So, Mr. Bond! We meet again!

Jesus…it’s finally happened.  I am my grandpa.  Also, I haven’t even mentioned any movies.  I tend to get distracted, you see.  So let’s call this “Part One” and I’ll get back atcha later this week with the flicks, mmm-kay?  Swell!