A History of Habadashery.

I just counted them off, and apparently I have lived in 8 different cities in my lifetime. I wasn't raised a military brat, so that is a pretty decent amount of moving I'd say. And while my physical address has been in a pretty constant state of flux, one thing has remained consistent no matter where I've been 'hanging my hat'. And that is, I've always had a hat to hang. Multiple hats, actually. Being blessed with my dad's hair which is both very fine and comes with a humongoid cowlick that basically prevented any attempt at what one may call a 'hairstyle' means I've gotten close to the same haircut for about 29 years, and that I've owned three times the amount of hats than haircuts I've gotten in my life. I pulled that number out of my ass, but it sounds about right.

So, this is a retrospective. Hatrospective? No, that's stupid sounding. This is... me looking back on the many hats I've worn through my days. Let us begin.

I don't know the year of this one, but judging by all the fluorescent, I'm thinking late 80's - early 90's. Notice how the shirt (Gotcha) matches the hat. I think that was an Adidas hat that I got from the corner store in Algona by my mom's old place. It was made of like windbreaker material and I never folded the brim. I don't know why. You can see the aforementioned monstrous cowlick spilling out. Man, that hot chocolate looks good.

This is a hat I stole from my friend Loren. Loren had a ton of gear and all our friends would 'borrow' stuff from him. Then his parents started getting pissed that all his clothes were missing and that ended that. If you can't tell, that's a G on the front and it stands for Georgetown Hoyas, the college. But it was worn more because it denoted the person wearing it was a gangsta. I was in fact NOT a gangsta, but I tried. It was one of those fancy hats that were pretty rare/expensive back then with the symbol and then other designs around the side/back. Notice the sorta matching blue striped shirt (super popular back then) and you can just see a hint of the flossy jean shorts (jorts) I had on, too. This was taken at the Fresno Zoo I think during one of my many summer Cali trips when I was kid.You can't tell, but that's a Fila hat. A pretty expensive one I think. Fila had a pretty successful return from like 94-96. This was from my freshman year of high school. When I first started school I didn't have any new clothes, so I had to work with what I had. Thus the Orlando Magic Anfernee Hardaway jersey over a hoodie. Still kinda matched with the hat though. I later traded that particular jersey to Omar from the Bronx for a orange and brown striped shirt. Omar was also kinda my rapping mentor. The shirt he traded me reaked of weed. I washed it as soon as I could.

This was taken at Xmas, around my sophmore year I believe. I'm pretty sure I got that jersey earlier in the day as a present. It was a Jalen Rose jersey. I always had to wear the new gear to the big family gathering later in the day. I think that is a Sonics hat. RIP. I didn't wear my hat 3/4's to the side like that often, but this rare occasion happened to get captured on celluloid. The undershirt is a superfaded NO FEAR shirt from back in day that is wasn't the best choice to the jersey but ah well, it was good in a pinch. The warmups were some Nike ones I got earlier that day too. The big guy holding me up is my dad. And, actually the one that created my affinity for hats. He was dealing with his hair issues before I was, and he decided the best way to do so with a lot of hats. Oh, and he once permed his hair, too. He came and picked me up from daycare after he had it done. It was crazy embarassing for me.You can't see it, but that is a Mariners hat. This picture was taken I think my last year of college, but no matter because I pretty much wore that hat through all of college. It was really just a rotation of different Mariner hat's in college. That one is a classic fitted. I think this was taken at graduation thus why me and Kasey are dressed up. Lucas couldn't be bothered, but he is ready for boot camp!

In this video from my performance on Ellensburg Extreme you can see another M's hat. This one is is like made faded and the bill is already folded when you buy it. I think I bought about three of this same hat. I'm kinda Doug Funnie like in that way. When I find something I dig, I wear it a lot. And will buy it again and again.

Pretty sure this was my first hat promoting alcohol. My friend Neil was working at Redhook Brewery and we went and visited him. And I saw this hat. The rest is history. Well, for about a year anyway. I've always liked that color, and it was different than most of the hats I owned. It had a velcro strap on the back which is less than fresh but ah well. It served its purpose well. This was at Sasquatch Festival. The 'bandanda' I'm wearing was a free promo item from 'The Rocker'. Oh, and a free orange KEXP pin. It's a good bet me and Karalee were pretty drunk by then. At least I was.
This hat is very similar to the last one, except its not a walking billboard for a local brewery (Except for the ad for the local brewery behind me, that is!). This one is what you might describe as an urban Castro hat. You would then get punched, but you could still do it. Other than the white Kangol (who's L fell off the back of it after I got it. It was a KANGO) I wore for a few in high school, this is the only other hat that I owned thus far that doesn't have a huge logo emblazoned on it. Since I bought this hat, which was probably about a year ago, I wore this hat HEAVY. And by that I mean a lot. A lot a lot. People at one time might have believed that thing was sewn to my head I wore it so much. It has a strap in the back that can be adjusted that is the same color as the hat which is both functional and fashionable. I love this hat. We've been through a lot. But... I recently retired it. Sorta. Fine. I still wear it. But only sometimes. This was taken at the Pyramid Brewery event earlier this year. Lucas was the photog for it.
This is the newest addition to my hat collection. I don't really have a picture of me wearing it yet. According to Michelle it's a headcoat. And that's what I've been calling it since she told me that. I bought this at the hat store in Leavenworth. Arguably the only store worth visiting on that strip of tourist traps. Fine, the cheese shop is cool too. But I digress. This was a pricey purchase, but a necessary one. I like it because I can fold those flaps down and keep my face warm when I'm at the bus stop at 7 a.m. freezing. It's also a little bit of a more adult look, imo. And with my *garbled* birthday coming up, that's not a bad thing.

And... hat's all folks! Ooh, I'm physically ill after typing that. But I'm not going to delete it. It's good to chronicle your mistakes. Which I'd wager a few of these hats/outfits were. But they are all accurate examples of me and who I was at the time. There's the saying that you can tell a lot about a man by the shoes he wears. For me, it's hats. Man, I hope this wasn't boring. If you read through all this, hat's off. Damnit. OK. NOW I'm done.

Hatty Holidays!

*shoots self*

Musings of a Man child.

I know, I know. I've been gone for awhile.

[Inigo Montoya] Let me 'splain. No, there is too much. [/Inigo Montoya]

Lets just get to our topic, eh?

I am a 29 year old man man child. For those confused by this term, allow me to elaborate. By MY definition;

Man child. mah-n chai-eld. Def: Essentially a guy, ages 25-3?, that for one reason or another can't seem to get their shit together.

Now, the "getting their shit together" deserves further elaboration. This can mean any number of things. It can mean they gather collection agencies notices like action figures, continually struggle to make rent when there is no reason for it, have a pile of laundry so high you would catch a nosebleed if you climbed to the top, etc, etc. I know many man childs? men children? man chilluns? Whatever the plural form is. Honestly, it seems like a good majority of my generation are plagued with this malady. I don't really know the cause of it. I've never been good with anthropology, or sociology. I'm just no good with -ologies, but the fact remains. A lot of guys have a hard time acting their age. Thing is, being a man child isn't really the worst lot in life. If you don't pay your bills on time, you tend to have more money in your pocket. If you have piles of clothes, you don't have to suffer through the utter mundanity of doing laundry... much. If you have lots of collection agencies after your ass, you have... I dunno, a bunch of neat, multi-colored envelopes. In between, you probably play a lot of Xbox, smoke weed, drink heavily, and collect toys that you insist people refer to as 'figures'. Again, all pretty good stuff in moderation but when done obsessively...

By and large, this is not an attractive look to women. As you get older, your childish antics don't get more endearing, they get kinda, well, pathetic. OK, so yes, as the universe dictates, there are women childs. They definitely exist. But if you are both saddled with the same issue(s), why would you want to be together? You wouldn't get anything done! You would be like this void of discarded clothes and debt. Shit, maybe that's your thing. But I'm gonna go out on a limb and guess for most - it isn't. As that sagacious feline MC Skat Kat has told me many times over in my Walkman when I was 10, Opposites Attract. Which brings us back to the issue at hand - manchildness is not attractive. If you don't care about your general well-being you might as well start early with not caring about female companionship. That is the cold hard fact, guys and dolls. Not a very bright future there, is it? You won't be needing any shades where you're going.

At the crux of the man child epidemic is the inability to handle money in a responsible way. If you have managed to make it out of your parents cellar (you 20-something Boo Radley you!) then you most likely now live with a roommate(s) and have bills that need to be paid monthly. Hopefully, you are capable of meeting those deadlines. If not, you are quite the weight on your housemates and they might be plotting to put some hemlock in your next peach bellini. Just like Socrates. So watch out. Poisoning aside, the second downside to man childry is that you can't save money. That means no big trips. You wanna see the world? Download Google Earth. Or play Risk. Or become an astronaut. But thats not very likely, is it? As travel is very unlikely, so is the possibility of you becoming a cosmopolitan with a broad worldview. Going new places and meeting new people promotes growth - which is something the man child needs badly.

Whats been left unsaid thus far is this is birthed from the canal of immaturity, of selfishness. A lack of maturity is what perpetuates these habits beyond the years in which they are seen as cute, endearing or acceptable. At 15, your antics are cute and relatively consequence free. At 27, Like it or not, your development is arrested and not even Tobias Fünke himself can save you from it. Problem is, being immature can be fun and its very nature prevents you from possessing the foresight necessary to see how this could be a big ol' wrench in the clockwork of a long and successful life. It is indeed a vicious cycle. Like one of those old timey bikes but with like knives for handlebars or something.

If you do tend to wear these aforementioned tendencies on your unwashed sleeve, you have more than likely experienced people, some younger than you, treat you as something below them. Its likely that they are obsessed with looking older than they really are and you, well we've covered that already. Its a very humbling, if not humiliating experience. In the end, everyone is playing a role. They are trying on their grown-up pants a little early, and you are still looking for yours in a pile of soiled laundry. That said, this is just another in a long line of ugly inevitabilities to the man child epidemic.

So, I'm going to stop here. Mainly, because my tears are making the keys very slippery. But let me be serious for a minute. My intent was not to provide ways in which you can pull yourself from this dense, deep chasm of man childry Jack London style. In large part due to the fact that I myself am just developing the skills necessary to rescue myself. (Beginning with carrying a small keg of scotch around my neck, not unlike a St. Bernard.) All I will say is that it is important to take that step. Selfishness has its virtues, but it won't sustain you and the longer it takes for us to realize that, the longer we prolong that next stage in our life.

And with that, I will take my leave. I have to go neglect some laundry and not pay some bills.

Lawn Darts, Anyone? Presents: Target Practice

On occasion, there will be times when I don’t have enough coherent thoughts to construct an entire post on one topic. To force it would be irresponsible, short-sighted and frankly kinda dickhead-ish. For these times I present a new installment here at L.D.A.;

Dart #1: A PSA to Bachelor Dudes My Age.

Recently, I have been in the position of having to use the facilities at a friends/acquaintance/random house (not the book publisher) I’m at. And usually, this is a relatively painless experience. In my travels, I have been in all manner of lavatories and am not quick to judge on the status therein. Everyone has their style and I understand that.  Now If you were to ask me to pick the nicest, It would invariably be a girls or one of my Asian friends loo’s. Oh man, I just remembered my grandma used to have this padded toilet seat… That is how I imagine a king gets down on the (other) throne. Ensconced in velvet, a huge turkey leg in the right hand, flagon of mead in the left with the royal buttocks resting on a cushioned toilet seat. Now that’s living.

But back to my original point. Most single guys have kind of dirty bathrooms. The counters are a mess, there is usually only like a revolution or so worth of t.p. left on deck and the toilet seat looks like a science project gone wrong… or right. Ugh. And that’s just the truth of it. But here’s where my wishbone of contention splits short. After wrapping up business time, uno or dos or both, unless you are a heathen of the highest order, you have to wash your hands. I mean, it’s good hygiene, yes, but it’s essentially just reflex after so many years. So after you have lavarase a manos (is that even close? I’m trying to flex those 10th grade Spanish skills) you gotta dry your hands. And this is the crux of my issue. This is where the rubber meets the road… because, like previously mentioned, there is an extreme lack of detail in a guys bathroom. All of which I’m cool with except THIS. On the towel rack there are usually two towels. There’s the towel they shower with and a hand towel. If anything needs to be clean to provide a non-hostile bathroom experience to your guests it’s the FUCKING HAND TOWEL. You always give it the benefit of the doubt. It looks so welcoming, doesn’t it? Terry cloth’d with some random embroidery no doubt direct from the bathroom section of Fred Meyer. But you don’t know what lies within, and you aren’t going to dry your hands on your pants. What are you, a Cro-Magnon? With a protruding probiscus and a hunchback? No, you’re not. So you reach for it, maybe you need pat your face if you splashed water on it, maybe its just a quick once-over for your hands. Whatever the case,  it’s already too late…

That’s right. Your hands and possibly face now smell like this dudes goddamn balls. I’m sorry if that’s gross for you to read, but it’s the utter veritas. I’ve basically come to the conclusion that guys just don’t wash their towels that much, and that’s whatever, but if you plan on having people over that aren’t you, please for heavens sake have at least ONE non-ball smelling towel in the vicinity of the bathroom sink. I am not an overzealous canine and I DO NOT have the desire to bury my nose into the crotch of the host s0 lets be grown ups, eh? Please. Step your bathroom game up!

Dart #2:  Bitch Beers and The Myth of Sisyphus.

Semi-recently, a cadre of syrupy sweet, bottled bitch beers and the execs that market them decided that it was time to break into the ‘dude demographic’. I’m not going to post the YouTubes of these ad campaigns because frankly I don’t want to give them the hits. Just know that they are a slew of quirky, irreverent and overall, masculine ads aimed at getting guys to drink these drinks that are so girly they should come with scrunchies and a copy of the latest Cosmo. And that has always been the case. And it seemed everyone was at peace with that. Occasionally, you’d meet a dude drinking one, inquire and find out they can’t drink beer and it’s usually left at that because the level of embarrassment he’s enduring is more than enough. There’s no need, or room for your snide comments. Because, by and large, they are a girl drink. Mike’s and Smirnoff Ice were well aware of that, and chose to remain quiet on the topic.

Which bring us to good ol’ Sisyphus. Sisyphus, and the myth thereof, is about a guy that is essentially stricken to rolling a large boulder up a hill, then letting it roll back down and doing it again. For eternity. I can’t remember who he pissed off, but they were obviously pretty high up. This is much like the marketing behind these drinks. You are doomed to push a product that has been labeled by society as feminine and you never hopped on that wagon train. You chose instead to play it relatively safe with a non-gender specific approach knowing fully well that it was never consumed by anyone other than the fairer sex. If they continue this ad campaign they will be continually pushing that boulder up the hill, only to have it roll down again. Getting nowhere. And, quickly at that. So, come on ad agency, give up the ghost. Successfully rebranding these products would be nothing short of a sky splitting miracle. It’s not in the cards, guys. FOLD.

Dart #3: How I Learned To Stop Blindly Hating and Grew to Love “Entourage.”

You know how for some strange reason or confluence of events you don’t end up hopping a very popular shows bandwagon? And at first you are annoyed because that’s all anyone is talking about but slowly that annoyance becomes righteous indignation and then soon after, pride? And you pat yourself on the back for not following the herd? The mindless, easily entertained flock? I freely admit that’s been me on more than one occasion.

*COUGH*LostHeroesTheWireDeadwoodCSIWhatever*COUGH*

And, yeah, Entourage. I knew the premise. I mean, it doesn’t take a MENSA initiate to figure it out. But I didn’t have HBO and that was pretty much reason enough for me not to sidle up next to the faithful viewers in the beginning. From there it was a simple case of out of sight/earshot, out of mind. I would occasionally run into references to the show on talk shows or SNL but more often than not the common thread that ran through these mentions was how much of a douchebag magnet the show was. And I, not exactly a fan of things douchebaggery, decided to maintain my distance due to this pop culture ephemera. That is until my family’s pater felinias passed on and his official owner needed some hangout time. The plan was to watch the one show I declared never to. Soon after expressing my prejudice  to the show, I realized that wasn’t really the spirit of the night, and I tagged along. And after a disc or two, I must say I was… pleasantly surprised. I was laughing a lot, found the ensemble cast very likable and the plots unique and engaging. Much to my chagrin. Believe me, I tried hard not to like it. I kept my nose in the air as long as I could. But it didn’t last. I had to admit it, it was a good show. Which brings us to present day. I have the last two discs from Season 3 NetFlix enveloped and ready to be shipped back and three discs from Season 4 underneath it from the local video shop cause I couldn’t wait for NetFlix to get here. I haven’t ran through a series this fast since Harry Potter. I am in a word, addicted. So this is my apology for any silent judgments I’ve made of Entourage fans over the years.

“Sorry Vince/Johnny/E., my bad”  - Turtle

And with that said, I’m off to cop Season 5.  Until next time, Space Campers.

On God, Foreigner & Flip Flops: The Caucasoidal Experience

How about this weather, eh? It is so damn hot.

You: How hot is it?

It is so damn hot that a radio station tried to play Foreigner’s song ‘Cold As Ice’ and all that came out of the radio was water vapor.

badumptsh.

So yeah, it’s really quite warm lately in the 206 and areas surrounding. And with the heat, brings an overall rethinking of daily wardrobe choices. That argyle sweater and tweed jacket combo is now replaced with your Gotcha tank top and the shorts with the sharks wearing sunglasses. Okay, fine, maybe your wardrobe is a little more up-to-date but I’m quite proud of my T&C Surf t-shirt collection, thankyouverymuch!

That ape has ‘tude, dude!

But I digest… It’s damn hot and I’ll be DAMNED if I am gonna rock socks in this heat. “Hey guys, my thermometer just exploded mercury all over! Lets put cotton slipcovers over our feet, followed by thick layers of leather and rubber and venture out onto the surface of the sun!” Yeahhhhhhhhh, NO.

So that brings us to alternative footwear, and more specifically the main subject of this here post. Flip Flops. The Great Aerators. Convertible Clodhoppers. Jerusalem Cruisers. And, If you’re my dad, you uncomfortably refer to them as Thongs. I honestly haven’t been wearing flip flops for very long. Growing up in the Northwest, they really aren’t that necessary. It was only when I when I started visiting my aunt and uncle in Fresno, CA that I was formally introduced to them. They referred to them as “house shoes”, which due to the heat is a westcoastian household tradition. Many years later, I was again introduced when I relocated to Ellensburg, a climate where flip flops were an utter necessity. It was so hot there that even the black dudes were rocking flip flops. Now that’s saying something! Actually, more than you might think. You see, by and large, flip flops are a white person thing. They are such a white person thing that I’m sure it’s covered in the primer convo God gives you. Oh, you don’t know about that? Let me enlighten you:

*dream sequence*

God: *nods* Sup.

Me: *nods back* …Hey.

God: Soo0, lets get down to it. I got some good news, and I got some bad news. Get used to these dichotomies, by the way.

Me: *looking quizzically into my creators eyes*

God: To put it simply, I made you white. You will hear other words for it, but they are just trying church it up. (laughs to himself) You’re a white dude. And the good news is… You will be in a position of privilege. You will be perpetually provided the benefit of the doubt. You will hardly be viewed as suspicious and in essence will be above reproach. It’s a pretty sweet gig, honestly. You’re welcome.

Me: (smiling big) Thanks!

God: No so fast there, white boy! There are two sides of the Force. Oh, you won’t get that reference but keep an eye out for a something called ‘Star Wars’. It’s pretty awesome. Anyways (shakes head), yeah, the bad news… Well, first there’s your general inability to keep a rhythm. Watch this (he snaps his fingers) Try to move your body with this.

Me: (thrashing about uncontrollably) …

God: (eyes big) Whoa. You’re worst than normal. Umm, try to become a DJ or something. That should save you a little bit of embarrassment.

Me: (looking ashamed)

God: Hey, hey, hey! Turn that frown upside down, weepy pants! This is God you’re talking to here. Hmm? Hmmmm?

Me: (sheepishly) Yeah…

God: Alright, another cross you’ll have to bear is… Ha! I kill myself sometimes… Look, your clothing choices are going to be inherently pretty suspect. Early on, not so much. You’ll wear pretty much anything and it’ll be cool. Now, later in life, you are going to feel an uncontrollable urge to wear either something called FUBU or Abercrombie and Fitch. There really isn’t a lot of in between, and you really can’t win no matter what you pick. So, just pick your poison. But no matter what path you choose, you are going to want to wear flip flops. They are like shoes, but your little toesies will be exposed.

Me: Toesies?

God: My son loves em, I prefer Nike Air Max 95’s. (shrugs) Different strokes. Aaaaand, so ends the trials of whitedudedness. Oh, you might also be pressured into listening to The Dave Matthews Band, Phish or Nickelback. I really don’t recommend any of them but sometimes when I go play poker “downstairs”, I have to listen to them nonstop. Ugh. So yeah, go on out there and make me proud, honky.

Me: I… don’t know what to say.

God: Just kiss the ring.

Me: (walks away descending slowly out of the clouds)

God: (yelling after me) Oh, and try Frisbee golf at least once. It’s kinda fun!

Or, something like that. I can’t be bothered with the details of the conversation! I didn’t exist yet, for Christ sakes. But the facts remain, and every one of that dudes predictions came true. Though I was able to walk the line between FUBU and A&F, not by much though. The most important thing is to this day I proudly wear my flip flops. It was divinely mandated. Hard to argue with that.

“In the beginning, there was open-toed footwear…”

I once lived a cliche…

Recently, I was digging through my old-more-or-less-discarded photobucket account and I happened on to this:

What you see before you is documentation of a very real  ‘dog ate my homework’ scenario. This is the scene I was greeted with as I stumbled into my house (I think) my junior year of college. Our dog Napoleon (named after the diminutive RB for the Huskies, not the diminutive cheese eating, surrender monkey) decided that for too long the joke so old it gets into movies at half price needed a realistic grounding. Did I feel honored that I was chosen to share in this staging of a plot out of a wacky children’s book?

 

In short, no. Why, you may ask, under your breath so you don’t freak out people as the person talking to the monitor? Well, I’ll tell you. See those little blue scraps of paper? Yeah, well, that was my [yosemite sam] ragginfraggin math homework! [/yosemite sam] So no, I was not full of whimsy and lighthearted good naturedness. Do you see the other backpack right next to it? That is Grant’s and it is

UN-SCATHED.

For all I know, Napoleon could’ve wiped his down with a damp paper towel to get rid of the dirt that collects from grimy classroom floors. I mean, couldn’t he have feasted on both? The answer is sure, but the reality is he didn’t. To continue with the story, in my everlasting wisdom and smartassedness, I decided I was going to turn in my homework anyway. So that’s just what I did. I gathered every blue scrap left from the Canine Vs. Backpack Fracass of 2000something and I put into a ziploc baggie and brought it to class the next day. The teacher came around to collect, I tried to hand her the bag and she wouldn’t take it. I explained my situation. She chuckled and actually gave me the credit for the masticated homework! So in the end, it all worked out. Though I don’t know if I can say the same for Napoleon… Get it? In the end? Worked out? Yeah, me either.

 

Here’s me and the culprit kickin’ it, BEFORE the incident. He’s dead now. I killed him. With a knife. JUST KIDDING. He’s living happily in Utah with fond memories of my tasty, tasty math homework.

A metal cock and a time machine...

Pre-Script: I love my roommate. He's one of the most giving, caring individuals I've ever ran across on this crazy little blue and green orb I call 'Erf.' But the dudes aesthetic choices? DAMN. Just DAMN.

With that said, our household recently received two new additions courtesy of the roommate's parental units. Addition #Eins:

No, my friends. You're eyes don'st deceive thee. That is a 2 foot

SHARP.

METAL.

COCK.

With glowing yellow eyes. I call him 'Sharpy McCockFace', but don't tell him that cause, well... he could quite literally kill me. The only way you could make your living room more life threatening then ours is right now is if you were to, like, attach some nunchuks to a ceiling fan or use a lion as an ottoman. I wouldn't recommend either one, but then again I also wouldn't recommend having a giant scrap metal chicken in your living room either. Call me crazy, but I think he is slowly moving from the spot we put him at. And, his eyes move. I have my fingers crossed he didn't get inhabited by some roaming evil spirit of a Mongol warrior or some shit. While that would make a GREAT movie, it would be a horrible reality for me.

The second piece is so bad that I was convinced he was joking when he suggested we take it from their storage space. It makes that piece of steel poultry above look like a DaVinci in comparison. Without further adieu, #deux:

I was dead honest with him. I said, 'Dude, we can hang this in our house. I don't have a problem with it. But know this - EVERY person that walks into our place will laugh uncontrollably when they come upon this beauty. If you're cool with that, then lets roll with it." Because, lets be honest here, folks. If this thing was anymore 80's it would be a TIME MACHINE to the 80's. Like, you could just hop into it and warp ala Mario Bros. 64. Where do I even start? The frolicing orcas? The marble frame that looks like it was a leftover set piece for 'Secret Of My Success' starring a young Michael J. Fox? I don't really think you guys can see the true freshness that this frame embodies. Here's a closer look:

Thats right. Not one, not two but THREE lines of gold foil inlay. That is baller shit, right there. This picture has gold, marble and orcas. It could buy and sell you. It would hire you as its assistant and all you would do is count its money and make it panini's when it wanted them.

So, it's currently nestled away in the roommate's room. I think he was a little hurt by my words as it's apparently a family-sentimental value kinda thing. But friends are supposed to be honest. If you let a friend hang up this picture and don't warn him of the joke that will be made at its expense. You're an asshole.

This has been a P.S.A. from the 'Be honest with your friends when it comes to horrid fuckin furniture they may want to add to your living space' coalition.

Welcome.

So, here we are. Well, here you are. I'm probably not here while you are visiting. Unless, I'm in some real sycophantic mood reading my own musings. I hope not. I really do. Shit, that's actually pretty likely. Narcisissim 2.o, forreal! Amiright?

This is my first official attempt at a blog. I've made others, but they never saw the light of day for an abundant number of very good reasons. I know, I know... you already read a hundred blogs a day. Make it one hundred and one. Btw, you ever seen '101 Dalmations'? That is a very under-rated Disney movie. And pretty damn racist. (Editors note: I was thinking of 'Lady and the Tramp') But I digress. This blog is about me writing stuff. I will not be sharing links, or ROFLcopter youtube vids. There's plenty of those out there, find them and LOL til your heart can't take it no more. This is for me to squeeze my mind grapes and bottle the juice. Kinda like Howard Hughes, but with less urine. Welcome.