Here's a little video I shot while drunk the other night. The other guys in it are my Roomie, Daniel (who you may remember from my last trip to SD), and our friend Josh (a.k.a. the pirate). The races in question happened before and after dinner. What's missing is the dinner conversation, with Josh making excuses and talking shit. There was enough whining on camera, though, to get a good idea of it in the video. As always, you can watch the embedded video (awesome), or you can double click on it, go to youtube, and watch it in high quality (fucking awesome). Enjoy!!
p.s. See you in SD on the 12th!
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Sunday, November 30, 2008
How to fill a wall - a high speed painting movie
I had a blank wall. Then I painted this. This video shows the entire painting being done in high speed (a la Phil Hansen). Now my room is complete. I hope you enjoy it!
If you want to watch this in high quality, go to here and click "watch in high def:"
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8dROq5PAIbE
If you want to watch this in high quality, go to here and click "watch in high def:"
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8dROq5PAIbE
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Who's that man in the Mustache?!
(Note: I made a new video for this post. Ordinarily, I will put my new videos at the top, but for this post, the video tells part of the story. It’s down there. Don’t skip ahead.)
Every year, as the days get shorter and a chill starts creeping in, I try and grow a winter coat. This usually means I don’t cut my hair for a couple of weeks, then cut it all off when it gets too hard to manage. I have a rule I live by, as far as my hair is concerned, and it is this: You must never spend more time doing your hair than it takes to brush your teeth. When I find myself wasting 10 minutes in the morning wrestling with the curls that sprout from the front of my scalp, it’s not long before I cut it all off.
This year, unmoved by the failures of every winter stretching back to when I was 19 and had really long hair, I tried again. I was gonna take it up a notch, though. This time, my face would also sport a winter coat.
The thing is, as anyone who has seen me shirtless can attest, I have no chest hair.
This is odd because a) I am nearly 30, and b) my arms and legs are hairy enough to give Robin Williams a run for his money. The lack of hair on my “core area” means that, for some reason, my facial hair is patchy and uneven. The area surrounding my mouth gets decent coverage, but cheek hair and sideburns are an absolute impossibility. Thus, a full beard would be impossible, but a goatee was possibly attainable. It was time to give it a shot.
Luckily, my job does not force face-to-face contact with customers, so appearance and hygiene are not really an issue except to those whose cubicles are directly adjacent to mine. This is fortunate because my appearance was going to suffer in the coming weeks and it was going to be hard enough just dealing with the fact that women were going to be appalled or amused by my attempts at looking like an adult.
Sure enough, it came in weak, looking like something you’d find on the face of a junior-high football player or an Italian grandmother. Three weeks in, though, it began to fill in, and look halfway decent, presentable at the very least. Then, at about the three-and-a-half week mark, there it was: A Full-On Goatee.
The Roomies liked it, but most females either hated it or had no opinion. As for me…
It was like a child to me. I haven’t worked this hard on something in a long time. I didn’t really know what to expect. It didn’t sing me to sleep or magically open doors for me, but it gave me something that I hadn’t had before, and that was something on my chin to fuck with besides pimples. Until then, I had no beard to stroke thoughtfully as I pondered things. I had nothing on my upper lip to catch beer foam. Now, though, I could rub my chin and take extra long to answer questions I knew the answer to, because that was what men with facial hair did. When I did answer the question after the allotted chin-stroke time, the answer had more gravity, and a lot of times it had shock value because whoever had asked the question didn’t have a goatee of their own to rub thoughtfully, and were hypnotized by my fine specimen. Or maybe it was jealousy. Whatever the case, the goatee was awesome.
On my annual October trip to San Diego, I got a lot more support for the goatee, but this may just have been because people in San Diego like me and don’t want to hurt my feelings.
The last night I wore the goatee was Halloween night, where my bangs and facial hair added to the Emo look of my costume (see Dall-o-ween post for costume details). The following night, a bar in my neighborhood was having a costume party, and I switched to my other costume: 1970’s-era tennis player. This consisted of a tight white polo, short (short!) white shorts, tall socks, head- and wristbands, my aviator shades, and a pink sweater tied around my shoulders. I had worn this to an 80’s party months ago, and everyone loved it because grown men in tight clothing and short (short!) shorts is funny. This time around, I was bringing something else to the table in the form of facial hair. But goatees weren’t very 70’s. I needed less. I needed a mustache.
The costume was a success. I was hanging out with Adam, who was going as Paulie Bleeker from Juno, so the men-in-short-shorts power was strong with us.
My legs may have been cold, but my upper lip was warm. I figured I could rock the ‘stache for a couple more weeks, at least until I could curl the tips. Mustaches are cool, right? Of course! Just ask The Tick:
Sadly, I only wore the mustache for two more days.
Sunday I went to the King Tut exhibit and I looked, frankly, like a child molester.
Luckily, there was no trouble; I was afraid the authorities would drag me away to the gas chamber, no questions asked (the death penalty here is, as I have mentioned before, swift and arbitrary). I wore the ‘stache to work on Monday, as I had promised some co-workers that if I did ever take it down to that level I would at least show them. They were not disappointed, but goddamn, I looked creepy. Monday night, without fanfare, I shaved it off.
I miss it now.
“Why not grow it back?” you might ask. Because I am lazy, is my reply. I value interaction with attractive females more than I value the support of guys I know that insist facial hair looks good on me. I cut my hair off shortly after this, and I was back to Nik as usual.
Even though the ladies may love my clean-shaven look, I know now that I have lost something more. It’s hard to tell when it happened. At first, I was a boy pretending to be a man. Now that I’ve shaved it, I feel like a man pretending to be a boy. My face looks naked to me.
Next winter, though, it’ll be back. Maybe by then I’ll have some chest hair to match.
Every year, as the days get shorter and a chill starts creeping in, I try and grow a winter coat. This usually means I don’t cut my hair for a couple of weeks, then cut it all off when it gets too hard to manage. I have a rule I live by, as far as my hair is concerned, and it is this: You must never spend more time doing your hair than it takes to brush your teeth. When I find myself wasting 10 minutes in the morning wrestling with the curls that sprout from the front of my scalp, it’s not long before I cut it all off.
This year, unmoved by the failures of every winter stretching back to when I was 19 and had really long hair, I tried again. I was gonna take it up a notch, though. This time, my face would also sport a winter coat.
The thing is, as anyone who has seen me shirtless can attest, I have no chest hair.
This is odd because a) I am nearly 30, and b) my arms and legs are hairy enough to give Robin Williams a run for his money. The lack of hair on my “core area” means that, for some reason, my facial hair is patchy and uneven. The area surrounding my mouth gets decent coverage, but cheek hair and sideburns are an absolute impossibility. Thus, a full beard would be impossible, but a goatee was possibly attainable. It was time to give it a shot.
Luckily, my job does not force face-to-face contact with customers, so appearance and hygiene are not really an issue except to those whose cubicles are directly adjacent to mine. This is fortunate because my appearance was going to suffer in the coming weeks and it was going to be hard enough just dealing with the fact that women were going to be appalled or amused by my attempts at looking like an adult.
Sure enough, it came in weak, looking like something you’d find on the face of a junior-high football player or an Italian grandmother. Three weeks in, though, it began to fill in, and look halfway decent, presentable at the very least. Then, at about the three-and-a-half week mark, there it was: A Full-On Goatee.
The Roomies liked it, but most females either hated it or had no opinion. As for me…
It was like a child to me. I haven’t worked this hard on something in a long time. I didn’t really know what to expect. It didn’t sing me to sleep or magically open doors for me, but it gave me something that I hadn’t had before, and that was something on my chin to fuck with besides pimples. Until then, I had no beard to stroke thoughtfully as I pondered things. I had nothing on my upper lip to catch beer foam. Now, though, I could rub my chin and take extra long to answer questions I knew the answer to, because that was what men with facial hair did. When I did answer the question after the allotted chin-stroke time, the answer had more gravity, and a lot of times it had shock value because whoever had asked the question didn’t have a goatee of their own to rub thoughtfully, and were hypnotized by my fine specimen. Or maybe it was jealousy. Whatever the case, the goatee was awesome.
On my annual October trip to San Diego, I got a lot more support for the goatee, but this may just have been because people in San Diego like me and don’t want to hurt my feelings.
The last night I wore the goatee was Halloween night, where my bangs and facial hair added to the Emo look of my costume (see Dall-o-ween post for costume details). The following night, a bar in my neighborhood was having a costume party, and I switched to my other costume: 1970’s-era tennis player. This consisted of a tight white polo, short (short!) white shorts, tall socks, head- and wristbands, my aviator shades, and a pink sweater tied around my shoulders. I had worn this to an 80’s party months ago, and everyone loved it because grown men in tight clothing and short (short!) shorts is funny. This time around, I was bringing something else to the table in the form of facial hair. But goatees weren’t very 70’s. I needed less. I needed a mustache.
The costume was a success. I was hanging out with Adam, who was going as Paulie Bleeker from Juno, so the men-in-short-shorts power was strong with us.
My legs may have been cold, but my upper lip was warm. I figured I could rock the ‘stache for a couple more weeks, at least until I could curl the tips. Mustaches are cool, right? Of course! Just ask The Tick:
Sadly, I only wore the mustache for two more days.
Sunday I went to the King Tut exhibit and I looked, frankly, like a child molester.
Luckily, there was no trouble; I was afraid the authorities would drag me away to the gas chamber, no questions asked (the death penalty here is, as I have mentioned before, swift and arbitrary). I wore the ‘stache to work on Monday, as I had promised some co-workers that if I did ever take it down to that level I would at least show them. They were not disappointed, but goddamn, I looked creepy. Monday night, without fanfare, I shaved it off.
I miss it now.
“Why not grow it back?” you might ask. Because I am lazy, is my reply. I value interaction with attractive females more than I value the support of guys I know that insist facial hair looks good on me. I cut my hair off shortly after this, and I was back to Nik as usual.
Even though the ladies may love my clean-shaven look, I know now that I have lost something more. It’s hard to tell when it happened. At first, I was a boy pretending to be a man. Now that I’ve shaved it, I feel like a man pretending to be a boy. My face looks naked to me.
Next winter, though, it’ll be back. Maybe by then I’ll have some chest hair to match.
Dall-o-ween
Suggested Soundtrack: "Star Witness" by Neko Case
This is going to be one of my “light reading” posts, mostly filled with pictures and some commentary. Let it first be said that my costume this year was awesome, and that I made it with my own two hands. It took just two hours to turn a black hoodie and an umbrella into this:
This was my Budget Batman outfit. With my goatee and bangs, I looked like a hipster superhero. Bringing technology to the table was Roomie Christian’s costume, Budget Ironman:
Amateur seamstress that I am, I made this costume as well. It involved a yellow hoodie, a red t-shirt, a sharpie, one of those round, “stick anywhere” utility lights that are sold on TV at 4am, and a hockey mask I painted to look like Ironman’s face.
The costumes worked on three levels:
Level one: Grown men in homemade superhero costumes is funny. All we needed was a third guy with a red sheet and his underwear on the outside and we could have had Superman, too. A lot of guys, seeing us in our imaginary costumes, were (and I’m absolutely sure of this) instantly nostalgic and insanely jealous. Every man at some point wished he was a superhero, every man knows what it is like to turn a towel into a cape and bounce off the couch, over the coffee table, onto a bean bag. Our costumes are not the “official” superhero costumes, they are the costume you could have made as a kid, if you were creative and handy with a needle and thread. And speaking of creativity, we have…
Level two: Grown men in homemade superhero costumes exhibit creativity, and chicks dig this. Guys who asked if I made the bat-hoodie myself probably thought I was gay when I told them I did. Girls who made this same inquiry were always impressed, because even bull-riding Texas girls sometimes dream about being with an artsy guy, at least for a little while, and wonder what life would be like with a man who creates brilliant things but also chainsmokes, drinks cheap gin straight from the bottle, and is strung out on painkillers. They see a guy that turned an umbrella into bat wings and they think, “We will have an apartment over a bar, and sleep until two in the afternoon. We will listen to music I can’t even fucking conceive of right now, and get high, and then he’ll have me model nude for him. After he’s done painting me, we’ll have passionate sex for hours. After about a month of this, I will move back to my parent’s ranch in Horsepatty, TX.” I am almost completely sure that every girl has this fantasy. But most of those girls would be afraid of being poor, which brings us to…
Level three: Grown men in homemade superhero costumes is prescient. In these economic times, who has $100 to drop on a good superhero costume? Not I. A few people understood this level of the costume, and those would usually ask what I did for a living. I’m sure a lot of them thought I was joking when I said I work in the mortgage industry. They certainly laughed like it was a joke.
The other two roommates had costumes that worked well together: Daniel grew out his beard, bought a hajj, fashioned a dynamite vest out of a lifejacket and some paper towel rolls, and went as a suicide bomber. Marlina was going crazy trying to come up with something, and had asked for help, so the day before Halloween I said “Sarah Palin” and she went for it. Marlina already wears those dress-suit things and glasses, all we had to do was make her a “Miss Alaska” sash and she was done. Right before we left, though, worry sunk in. Marlina’s worry was that there would be a lot of other Palins running around, and I was inclined to agree. Daniel was confident in his outfit but the rest of us were a little worried that some might find it a touch offensive. We were wrong on both counts. Marlina was a hit, and Daniel’s reception was epic. EVERYONE loved Daniel’s suicide bomber outfit. For whatever reason, most people assumed Marlina and Daniel were a planned duo, and I guess it made sense somehow, at least it did on October 31st in Dallas.
Rounding out the bunch was Adam, spot on as Pauly Bleeker. He met a Juno outside the bar and took the perfect photo. Adam got a lot of love from girls who either: a) love the character from the movie, b) love Michael Cera, or c) love the idea of a guy like that (see also: Level two of the Budget superhero costume dissection).
All in all, one of the better Dallas nights out. Here are some random pics from that night, and any comments I feel the need to throw out there. In retrospect, this is not a “light reading” post, but I refuse to go back and edit that out. I hope you enjoyed my rant. Now, on to the pictures!!
The girls in the costume contest. One took her boob out. Winner!
Budget Ironman meets Budget Tony Stark!
Another Superhero meets us outside:
Enemies!
...and one more of The New Roomies:
Tomorrow look for "Who's that man in the Mustache?"
Until next time...
This is going to be one of my “light reading” posts, mostly filled with pictures and some commentary. Let it first be said that my costume this year was awesome, and that I made it with my own two hands. It took just two hours to turn a black hoodie and an umbrella into this:
This was my Budget Batman outfit. With my goatee and bangs, I looked like a hipster superhero. Bringing technology to the table was Roomie Christian’s costume, Budget Ironman:
Amateur seamstress that I am, I made this costume as well. It involved a yellow hoodie, a red t-shirt, a sharpie, one of those round, “stick anywhere” utility lights that are sold on TV at 4am, and a hockey mask I painted to look like Ironman’s face.
The costumes worked on three levels:
Level one: Grown men in homemade superhero costumes is funny. All we needed was a third guy with a red sheet and his underwear on the outside and we could have had Superman, too. A lot of guys, seeing us in our imaginary costumes, were (and I’m absolutely sure of this) instantly nostalgic and insanely jealous. Every man at some point wished he was a superhero, every man knows what it is like to turn a towel into a cape and bounce off the couch, over the coffee table, onto a bean bag. Our costumes are not the “official” superhero costumes, they are the costume you could have made as a kid, if you were creative and handy with a needle and thread. And speaking of creativity, we have…
Level two: Grown men in homemade superhero costumes exhibit creativity, and chicks dig this. Guys who asked if I made the bat-hoodie myself probably thought I was gay when I told them I did. Girls who made this same inquiry were always impressed, because even bull-riding Texas girls sometimes dream about being with an artsy guy, at least for a little while, and wonder what life would be like with a man who creates brilliant things but also chainsmokes, drinks cheap gin straight from the bottle, and is strung out on painkillers. They see a guy that turned an umbrella into bat wings and they think, “We will have an apartment over a bar, and sleep until two in the afternoon. We will listen to music I can’t even fucking conceive of right now, and get high, and then he’ll have me model nude for him. After he’s done painting me, we’ll have passionate sex for hours. After about a month of this, I will move back to my parent’s ranch in Horsepatty, TX.” I am almost completely sure that every girl has this fantasy. But most of those girls would be afraid of being poor, which brings us to…
Level three: Grown men in homemade superhero costumes is prescient. In these economic times, who has $100 to drop on a good superhero costume? Not I. A few people understood this level of the costume, and those would usually ask what I did for a living. I’m sure a lot of them thought I was joking when I said I work in the mortgage industry. They certainly laughed like it was a joke.
The other two roommates had costumes that worked well together: Daniel grew out his beard, bought a hajj, fashioned a dynamite vest out of a lifejacket and some paper towel rolls, and went as a suicide bomber. Marlina was going crazy trying to come up with something, and had asked for help, so the day before Halloween I said “Sarah Palin” and she went for it. Marlina already wears those dress-suit things and glasses, all we had to do was make her a “Miss Alaska” sash and she was done. Right before we left, though, worry sunk in. Marlina’s worry was that there would be a lot of other Palins running around, and I was inclined to agree. Daniel was confident in his outfit but the rest of us were a little worried that some might find it a touch offensive. We were wrong on both counts. Marlina was a hit, and Daniel’s reception was epic. EVERYONE loved Daniel’s suicide bomber outfit. For whatever reason, most people assumed Marlina and Daniel were a planned duo, and I guess it made sense somehow, at least it did on October 31st in Dallas.
Rounding out the bunch was Adam, spot on as Pauly Bleeker. He met a Juno outside the bar and took the perfect photo. Adam got a lot of love from girls who either: a) love the character from the movie, b) love Michael Cera, or c) love the idea of a guy like that (see also: Level two of the Budget superhero costume dissection).
All in all, one of the better Dallas nights out. Here are some random pics from that night, and any comments I feel the need to throw out there. In retrospect, this is not a “light reading” post, but I refuse to go back and edit that out. I hope you enjoyed my rant. Now, on to the pictures!!
The girls in the costume contest. One took her boob out. Winner!
Budget Ironman meets Budget Tony Stark!
Another Superhero meets us outside:
Enemies!
...and one more of The New Roomies:
Tomorrow look for "Who's that man in the Mustache?"
Until next time...
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
On Chocolate Milk
Suggested Soundtrack: "Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk" by Rufus Wainright
The other day, I was at the store and something occurred to me: I had not had chocolate milk in a long, long time. Chocolate milk is one of my favorite things in the whole world; as far as chocolate flavored drinks are concerned, chocolate milk is third only to chocolate shakes (second place) and Frosties (the best chocolate drink in the whole wide world, bar none).
So I got some powdered chocolate milk mix. This may be a controversial choice for some people, namely chocolate syrup-lovers. But I never liked chocolate syrup. It’s like the nicer version of chocolate powder, and I dislike it in much the same way as I dislike the non-powdered cheese version of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese (that silvery packet of pre-mixed cheese sauce grosses me out) and any flavor or Top Ramen besides Chicken and Creamy Chicken (you can keep your fancy-schmancy shrimp and beef flavors). So powder it was.
I didn’t have a glass of chocolate milk as soon as I got home because I knew I’d be forcing it. I wanted to know that chocolate milk was available to me as soon as I got a good, solid hankering for it.
Less than a week later it was time. I was relaxing with the Roomies and I realized that I was a) thirsty, and b) currently experiencing the medical malady known as “sweet tooth.”
The path was clear. It was time for chocolate milk.
What I didn’t count on was my Roomies going apeshit and wanting some too. It was understandable though, and I was more than happy to oblige. There was plenty of powdered chocolate milk mix to go around. This gave me an opportunity to observe their mixing technique, which is, in my opinion, just as important as the powder/syrup issue. There are two techniques.
The Roomies went with technique one: each put two heaping spoonfuls in their respective cups, added milk, and stirred like crazy.
This is wrong.
Technique one leads to sludge at the bottom of the cup.
When I was a kid, I loved the sludge. When I was done, I would tilt the cup way up, position my open mouth at the bottom, and wait for the sludge to slowly creep its way down. Then I would chew the stuff, which was slick on the outside, and powdery on the inside. Only kids can enjoy this. Kids also eat frosting and leave the cake. As an adult, though, I now appreciate the fully-mixed cup of chocolate milk, one that I can sip away at for a little while, and then, at about the halfway mark, finish in one long swallow. I drink orange juice this same way. It allows for measured enjoyment for a while, and then the kind of flavor “hit” that only someone who drinks or smokes or does drugs to excess can appreciate. Having a pile of sludge at the bottom after drinking my chocolate milk in the sip-sip-sip-then-guzzle manner would be like chewing the ice at the bottom of a cocktail, eating the filter of a finished cigarette, or drinking the bongwater: more of the same, but worse. As far as I know, there is only one way to ensure that there is no sludge at the bottom of my chocolate milk without using a blender, and that is technique two.
Technique two is the exact opposite of technique one. It involves timing and finesse, as well as a solid knowledge of the relationship between color and flavor. First, put milk in the cup. Next, take your spoon and begin stirring the milk, not too briskly. You want a consistent mini-whirlpool. If tiny drops of milk are flying out of the cup, you need to slow it down a bit. Once you have the correct spin on things, with your free hand, grab the open container of chocolate milk mix and position it over the mini-vortex. Now, ever so gently, begin tapping the container with one of your gripping fingers, and little bits of powder will begin to trickle out. It is important that you do not stop stirring, and it is equally important that you do not go overboard with the tapping. Not enough stirring or too much tapping will lead to clumps, and clumps sink and become sludge. So stir, and tap, and if you are doing it right, the milk will magically begin to get darker and more chocalatey every second, without any clumpage. If you drink a lot of chocolate milk, you will know the color you like it, and can stop at the exact moment that your mix reaches that color. If not, you are on your own, but keep in mind that grade school chocolate milk is a lighter brown, and bottled Nesquik is a darker brown with a little more thickness to it (If you prefer Yoo-hoo, stop reading this and throw yourself out the closest window, or just omit milk and substitute used toilet water. Yoo-hoo is some gross and terrible shit. This is a fact). I like my chocolate milk slightly darker than grade school brown.
We stirred away, each of us remembering the last time we had chocolate milk, and smiling because chocolate milk is fucking awesome and we couldn’t wait to drink it.
Well, everyone got their milk made and sat back down.
And for a while, all was right in the world.
The other day, I was at the store and something occurred to me: I had not had chocolate milk in a long, long time. Chocolate milk is one of my favorite things in the whole world; as far as chocolate flavored drinks are concerned, chocolate milk is third only to chocolate shakes (second place) and Frosties (the best chocolate drink in the whole wide world, bar none).
So I got some powdered chocolate milk mix. This may be a controversial choice for some people, namely chocolate syrup-lovers. But I never liked chocolate syrup. It’s like the nicer version of chocolate powder, and I dislike it in much the same way as I dislike the non-powdered cheese version of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese (that silvery packet of pre-mixed cheese sauce grosses me out) and any flavor or Top Ramen besides Chicken and Creamy Chicken (you can keep your fancy-schmancy shrimp and beef flavors). So powder it was.
I didn’t have a glass of chocolate milk as soon as I got home because I knew I’d be forcing it. I wanted to know that chocolate milk was available to me as soon as I got a good, solid hankering for it.
Less than a week later it was time. I was relaxing with the Roomies and I realized that I was a) thirsty, and b) currently experiencing the medical malady known as “sweet tooth.”
The path was clear. It was time for chocolate milk.
What I didn’t count on was my Roomies going apeshit and wanting some too. It was understandable though, and I was more than happy to oblige. There was plenty of powdered chocolate milk mix to go around. This gave me an opportunity to observe their mixing technique, which is, in my opinion, just as important as the powder/syrup issue. There are two techniques.
The Roomies went with technique one: each put two heaping spoonfuls in their respective cups, added milk, and stirred like crazy.
This is wrong.
Technique one leads to sludge at the bottom of the cup.
When I was a kid, I loved the sludge. When I was done, I would tilt the cup way up, position my open mouth at the bottom, and wait for the sludge to slowly creep its way down. Then I would chew the stuff, which was slick on the outside, and powdery on the inside. Only kids can enjoy this. Kids also eat frosting and leave the cake. As an adult, though, I now appreciate the fully-mixed cup of chocolate milk, one that I can sip away at for a little while, and then, at about the halfway mark, finish in one long swallow. I drink orange juice this same way. It allows for measured enjoyment for a while, and then the kind of flavor “hit” that only someone who drinks or smokes or does drugs to excess can appreciate. Having a pile of sludge at the bottom after drinking my chocolate milk in the sip-sip-sip-then-guzzle manner would be like chewing the ice at the bottom of a cocktail, eating the filter of a finished cigarette, or drinking the bongwater: more of the same, but worse. As far as I know, there is only one way to ensure that there is no sludge at the bottom of my chocolate milk without using a blender, and that is technique two.
Technique two is the exact opposite of technique one. It involves timing and finesse, as well as a solid knowledge of the relationship between color and flavor. First, put milk in the cup. Next, take your spoon and begin stirring the milk, not too briskly. You want a consistent mini-whirlpool. If tiny drops of milk are flying out of the cup, you need to slow it down a bit. Once you have the correct spin on things, with your free hand, grab the open container of chocolate milk mix and position it over the mini-vortex. Now, ever so gently, begin tapping the container with one of your gripping fingers, and little bits of powder will begin to trickle out. It is important that you do not stop stirring, and it is equally important that you do not go overboard with the tapping. Not enough stirring or too much tapping will lead to clumps, and clumps sink and become sludge. So stir, and tap, and if you are doing it right, the milk will magically begin to get darker and more chocalatey every second, without any clumpage. If you drink a lot of chocolate milk, you will know the color you like it, and can stop at the exact moment that your mix reaches that color. If not, you are on your own, but keep in mind that grade school chocolate milk is a lighter brown, and bottled Nesquik is a darker brown with a little more thickness to it (If you prefer Yoo-hoo, stop reading this and throw yourself out the closest window, or just omit milk and substitute used toilet water. Yoo-hoo is some gross and terrible shit. This is a fact). I like my chocolate milk slightly darker than grade school brown.
We stirred away, each of us remembering the last time we had chocolate milk, and smiling because chocolate milk is fucking awesome and we couldn’t wait to drink it.
Well, everyone got their milk made and sat back down.
And for a while, all was right in the world.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
On Roommates, New and Old, and Facial Hair
Suggested Soundtrack: "This Time Tomorrow" by The Kinks
I have some important news that I've been holding from you all.
I moved out of my original Dallas Living Situation (DLS) with the fantastic family that cared for me as if I was their own, and moved into a new place with three roommates. The current DLS has disadvantages, namely:
-Rent
-Utility bills
-Responsibility
-No kids running around, keeping me on my toes and limiting the amount of bad words I say on any given day
...but there are advantages too:
-I now live a 10 minute bike ride from work
-I am walking distance from two bars (one is good, the other one is okay)
-I live with three cool ass people
-I can swear
-I can run around in my boxer shorts
-I can have company over, and even overnight guests
So while I'll miss the family, I am happy to be free. I still visit them at least once a week, and it rocks.
So there's that. I'll try and get a video tour of the house put together for next time.
NEXT!
Halloween is coming up. I love Halloween. I'm trying to get the male Roomies to do a group costume thing like Nick, Jason and I did two years back when we all went as Michael Jackson:
As for the new Roomies, well, let me show you the new Roomies. This is a picture from New Years Eve, before I was living with them. I showed up at a "Dress to Impress" New Years Ball in my favorite robe. I knew they were cool when Daniel rolled out in a tuxedo t-shirt:
So given our various heights and hair colors, I thought we'd be perfect as:
I even showed them as much with the photoshopped picture below. I'll keep you posted if that's the route we go.
NEXT!
Okay, almost done. Two more things. I AM COMING TO SAN DIEGO ON OCTOBER 23RD!!!!!
Here's what we know so far:
Thursday
-Arrive in San diego 10:30am, hopefully already drunk.
-Maybe happy hour at the Prado (I gotta get it out of the way)
-Dinner at the Turf Club?
Friday
-Breakfast at Hash House?
-Beach (Weather permitting)
-Drive to LA
-Knott's Berry Farm Halloween Haunt. This will be the 9th annual. You are welcome to go. As it stands, we have at least 8 people on board so far, probably more. We have hotel rooms. If you want to go, let me know, I'll get you the details. It is always a booze and drug-fueled fun-fest. This is one of my favorite things ever, and if you want to come I'd love to have you with me.
Saturday
-Wake up in LA, maybe sightsee a little bit
-Drive back to SD
-Beach (Weather permitting)
-Drink ourselves stupid. If anyone knows of a Halloween party on this night, I'd appreciate a heads up! Otherwise, pub crawl!!
Sunday
-Bluegrass Brunch at Urban Solace
-Beach (Weather permitting)
-Fly back to Dallas
...won't you join us? New Roomie Daniel is coming, and there are serious rumors that Old Roomies Nick and Jason are coming out from Minneapolis and Omaha, respectively.
See you soon, San Diego!!!
NEXT! LAST!!
I'm growing my winter coat. Haven't cut my hair in a while, and am attempting to grow facial hair like I do once a year.
It's pretty patchy (the facial hair) but I'm not giving up! This is one of the benefits of having a job that is done entirely over the phone. I can look/smell like hell and no one will ever know except my co-workers, and who gives a shit what they think?! Sweet!
Well, as I'm looking proudly at my tufty facial hair, which could be put to shame by any 13-year-old whose testicles have dropped, I get a text from Nick in Minneapolis. He's growing his hair out, too.
Holy shit, Nick. THAT IS FUCKING AWESOME!!! You're making me look bad, but I don't mind. I don't mind one bit.
See you in two weeks, San Diego!!
Until Next Time...
I have some important news that I've been holding from you all.
I moved out of my original Dallas Living Situation (DLS) with the fantastic family that cared for me as if I was their own, and moved into a new place with three roommates. The current DLS has disadvantages, namely:
-Rent
-Utility bills
-Responsibility
-No kids running around, keeping me on my toes and limiting the amount of bad words I say on any given day
...but there are advantages too:
-I now live a 10 minute bike ride from work
-I am walking distance from two bars (one is good, the other one is okay)
-I live with three cool ass people
-I can swear
-I can run around in my boxer shorts
-I can have company over, and even overnight guests
So while I'll miss the family, I am happy to be free. I still visit them at least once a week, and it rocks.
So there's that. I'll try and get a video tour of the house put together for next time.
NEXT!
Halloween is coming up. I love Halloween. I'm trying to get the male Roomies to do a group costume thing like Nick, Jason and I did two years back when we all went as Michael Jackson:
As for the new Roomies, well, let me show you the new Roomies. This is a picture from New Years Eve, before I was living with them. I showed up at a "Dress to Impress" New Years Ball in my favorite robe. I knew they were cool when Daniel rolled out in a tuxedo t-shirt:
So given our various heights and hair colors, I thought we'd be perfect as:
I even showed them as much with the photoshopped picture below. I'll keep you posted if that's the route we go.
NEXT!
Okay, almost done. Two more things. I AM COMING TO SAN DIEGO ON OCTOBER 23RD!!!!!
Here's what we know so far:
Thursday
-Arrive in San diego 10:30am, hopefully already drunk.
-Maybe happy hour at the Prado (I gotta get it out of the way)
-Dinner at the Turf Club?
Friday
-Breakfast at Hash House?
-Beach (Weather permitting)
-Drive to LA
-Knott's Berry Farm Halloween Haunt. This will be the 9th annual. You are welcome to go. As it stands, we have at least 8 people on board so far, probably more. We have hotel rooms. If you want to go, let me know, I'll get you the details. It is always a booze and drug-fueled fun-fest. This is one of my favorite things ever, and if you want to come I'd love to have you with me.
Saturday
-Wake up in LA, maybe sightsee a little bit
-Drive back to SD
-Beach (Weather permitting)
-Drink ourselves stupid. If anyone knows of a Halloween party on this night, I'd appreciate a heads up! Otherwise, pub crawl!!
Sunday
-Bluegrass Brunch at Urban Solace
-Beach (Weather permitting)
-Fly back to Dallas
...won't you join us? New Roomie Daniel is coming, and there are serious rumors that Old Roomies Nick and Jason are coming out from Minneapolis and Omaha, respectively.
See you soon, San Diego!!!
NEXT! LAST!!
I'm growing my winter coat. Haven't cut my hair in a while, and am attempting to grow facial hair like I do once a year.
It's pretty patchy (the facial hair) but I'm not giving up! This is one of the benefits of having a job that is done entirely over the phone. I can look/smell like hell and no one will ever know except my co-workers, and who gives a shit what they think?! Sweet!
Well, as I'm looking proudly at my tufty facial hair, which could be put to shame by any 13-year-old whose testicles have dropped, I get a text from Nick in Minneapolis. He's growing his hair out, too.
Holy shit, Nick. THAT IS FUCKING AWESOME!!! You're making me look bad, but I don't mind. I don't mind one bit.
See you in two weeks, San Diego!!
Until Next Time...
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
The Great Redneck Mystery
Suggested Soundtrack: "Man of Constant Sorrow" by The Soggy Bottom Boys
I figured something out today:
I figured out why you will often see a hot girl walking hand in hand with a dirty, stupid-looking country boy around town here.
Here’s how it works:
We know that a beautiful girl can be born anywhere. So you take some town in the middle of nowhere, a town called Borington or something, and this town will have a fair number of good-looking girls. Among them, we have OUR girl. She’s not rich; her parents have never left the county. But watching TV as a child, she dreamed of one day moving to Hollywood and being an actress. She becomes a cheerleader in school and everyone knows she is too hot for Borington, that this girl is gonna do something someday. But a girl needs love, and that’s where our guy comes in.
He’s a corn-fed farm boy, who is of average looks and intelligence, who knows that he’s gotta work hard to succeed, and so he does, he throws football after football through the tire swing in his front yard, over and over and it doesn’t make him the best, but it does make him the best in Borington. He becomes the quarterback of the high school team.
They met during freshman year, and eventually get married.
His arm isn’t good enough for college, and neither are his grades. His uncle runs a farm equipment store, so he starts working there. She is in community college, or going to hairstylist school.
She may be married to a country bumpkin, but she reads Cosmo and watches Sex in the City. She knows what to shop for when she is out with friends. She looks good before she leaves the house. She loves her man, and would never think that there is anything wrong with him. This is kinda sweet in a way, her nonjudgemental love.
He, on the other hand, at one point just said, “Fuck, it. From now on, I’m stickin’ to t-shirts tucked into tight jeans, high-top Nikes, Texas-shaped belt-buckle, Cellphone holster, and my camouflage baseball hat with a fishhook on it. “
Then, when his uncle decides to expand his farm equipment empire, they up and move to “the big city,” where guys like me look at them and say, “Why the FUCK is that chick with THAT guy?”
It’s the only explanation I can think of.
I wonder if I went undercover if they would know that I was an imposter?
Until next time...
I figured something out today:
I figured out why you will often see a hot girl walking hand in hand with a dirty, stupid-looking country boy around town here.
Here’s how it works:
We know that a beautiful girl can be born anywhere. So you take some town in the middle of nowhere, a town called Borington or something, and this town will have a fair number of good-looking girls. Among them, we have OUR girl. She’s not rich; her parents have never left the county. But watching TV as a child, she dreamed of one day moving to Hollywood and being an actress. She becomes a cheerleader in school and everyone knows she is too hot for Borington, that this girl is gonna do something someday. But a girl needs love, and that’s where our guy comes in.
He’s a corn-fed farm boy, who is of average looks and intelligence, who knows that he’s gotta work hard to succeed, and so he does, he throws football after football through the tire swing in his front yard, over and over and it doesn’t make him the best, but it does make him the best in Borington. He becomes the quarterback of the high school team.
They met during freshman year, and eventually get married.
His arm isn’t good enough for college, and neither are his grades. His uncle runs a farm equipment store, so he starts working there. She is in community college, or going to hairstylist school.
She may be married to a country bumpkin, but she reads Cosmo and watches Sex in the City. She knows what to shop for when she is out with friends. She looks good before she leaves the house. She loves her man, and would never think that there is anything wrong with him. This is kinda sweet in a way, her nonjudgemental love.
He, on the other hand, at one point just said, “Fuck, it. From now on, I’m stickin’ to t-shirts tucked into tight jeans, high-top Nikes, Texas-shaped belt-buckle, Cellphone holster, and my camouflage baseball hat with a fishhook on it. “
Then, when his uncle decides to expand his farm equipment empire, they up and move to “the big city,” where guys like me look at them and say, “Why the FUCK is that chick with THAT guy?”
It’s the only explanation I can think of.
I wonder if I went undercover if they would know that I was an imposter?
Until next time...
Sunday, September 7, 2008
California to Texas in six minutes.
Suggested Soundtrack: "Children" by Robert Miles
If you like a good narrative, don't watch the video yet. The story of this brief trip follows, and if you want to see the finished product right away, go ahead. The version above is the low quality version, so it can be hard to see some of the finer detail. If you are a purist, and you should be, watch this video in "High Quality." It's the better choice. If you are lazy (like me) you can watch the crappy version, but trust me, it's not as pretty.
You should really watch the high quality version:
CA to TX in 6 minutes
Click that and then click the "watch in high quality" thingie on the bottom right corner.
THE STORY OF THE DRIVE
Mike is a very good friend of mine. Here is a brief (brief!) timeline of our friendship:
-Became friends at Outback Steakhouse in San Diego (El Cajon, actually)
-Got up to all sorts of no good for some time
-Mike got restless, moved to Dallas to work a "real job," tries and fails repeatedly to get me to move to Texas
-While Mike climbed the corporate ladder, I fucked off for three years
-Mike falls in love, gets married
-At wedding, Mike finally convinces me to move to Dallas
-I move to Dallas, friendless except for Mike
-Two months after I move to Dallas, Mike gets a better position and moves to San Diego
As I see it, there are two ways to look at that last bit:
1. "Had I moved to Dallas when Mike did, I might also be getting the opportunity to move back to California"
2. "That mother fucker"
Well, as it turns out, the grass is always greener and all of that, and once you factor in the cost of living and a heinous commute, Mike wasn't doing much better in California, and wanted to come back. I helped Mike and his family pack for the move TO California, and swore I would not help him pack ever again. Mike needed help in another way. Would I be wiling to drive one of his cars back for him? he wondered.
Sure, I say.
He found me a wingman: Jonathan, who Mike knew from Dallas. The two of us would fly out on a Friday night, hang out on the beach on Saturday, and drive back in a straight shot on Sunday. Easy, right? I got my camera ready, as I already knew what I wanted to do on the terrible, terrible drive.
Friday night, stepping off the plane, I had one thing and one thing only on my mind: Double double.
Mission accomplished.
I'm going to take a quick second to mention that there really is nothing like In-n-Out Burger in Texas. Every so often, some ignorant bastard will make the "Whataburger tastes just like In-n-Out" statement. This is wrong. Whataburger is a filthy shithole with burgers that cause explosive gas 99.9% of the time. The burgers are greasy, the fries are for shit, and the staff mopes around like sweatshop workers. There is no comparison. The lack of Double doubles (animal style, with whole grilled onions) is an empty part of my Texas existence, the same kind of emptiness I have from the lack of three-dollar, two-pound Carne Asada Burritos...but back to the story.
Satisfied with the meal and tired from getting drunk on the plane ride, we crashed out, ready for our one day of California before we had to set our backs to the coast and head back to Texas.
Saturday, we prepped for the beach. In my absence from the San Diego area, some shitty law got passed and now alcohol is NOT allowed on the beach. Seriously people, I'm not gone a year and the whole place is falling to shit! No booze on the beach?!?!? It was time to get creative. I had a plan. You get a brief tutorial:
**Getting drunk at the alcohol-free beach**
Step 1: Get yourself a handle of vodka, and 10 Vitamin waters of any flavor
Step 2: Empty the top part of the Vitamin Waters out. There is a helpful crease just above the label that helps you determine just how much to pour out.
Step 3: Top up the partially full Vitamin Waters with the vodka. The bottle of vodka will now be split among the 10 Vitamin Waters, with hardly any to spare.
Step 4: Pack them in a cooler. Be careful. Three of these will have you talking to strangers while pissing on cars.
**Tutorial over**
We went to the beach at Torrey Pines. It was fantastic. Good things were happening. My good friend "Serena" came up from Ocean Beach and we discovered that while you may not be able to chug a beer on the beach, it's still not a huge deal if you roll a doobie:
Thus intoxicated, we wandered up and down the shore. I was in a happy place, smelling the salty air, soaking up the sun, and rocking my new beach towel.
As I do every time I'm home, I said to myself, "Why the FUCK did I leave?"
Drunk and happy, we went to dinner at the Outback, and then out to the casino for some more boozin'.
Sunday, after breakfast, John and I set out for Palm Springs, where I wanted to pick some things up from my Dad's place.
That done, I turned my camera on, set it on the dashboard, and we were off...
(If you waited to watch the video, here's that link again. Enjoy.)
CA to TX in 6 minutes
Click that and then click the "watch in high quality" thingie on the bottom right corner.
Until next time...
If you like a good narrative, don't watch the video yet. The story of this brief trip follows, and if you want to see the finished product right away, go ahead. The version above is the low quality version, so it can be hard to see some of the finer detail. If you are a purist, and you should be, watch this video in "High Quality." It's the better choice. If you are lazy (like me) you can watch the crappy version, but trust me, it's not as pretty.
You should really watch the high quality version:
CA to TX in 6 minutes
Click that and then click the "watch in high quality" thingie on the bottom right corner.
THE STORY OF THE DRIVE
Mike is a very good friend of mine. Here is a brief (brief!) timeline of our friendship:
-Became friends at Outback Steakhouse in San Diego (El Cajon, actually)
-Got up to all sorts of no good for some time
-Mike got restless, moved to Dallas to work a "real job," tries and fails repeatedly to get me to move to Texas
-While Mike climbed the corporate ladder, I fucked off for three years
-Mike falls in love, gets married
-At wedding, Mike finally convinces me to move to Dallas
-I move to Dallas, friendless except for Mike
-Two months after I move to Dallas, Mike gets a better position and moves to San Diego
As I see it, there are two ways to look at that last bit:
1. "Had I moved to Dallas when Mike did, I might also be getting the opportunity to move back to California"
2. "That mother fucker"
Well, as it turns out, the grass is always greener and all of that, and once you factor in the cost of living and a heinous commute, Mike wasn't doing much better in California, and wanted to come back. I helped Mike and his family pack for the move TO California, and swore I would not help him pack ever again. Mike needed help in another way. Would I be wiling to drive one of his cars back for him? he wondered.
Sure, I say.
He found me a wingman: Jonathan, who Mike knew from Dallas. The two of us would fly out on a Friday night, hang out on the beach on Saturday, and drive back in a straight shot on Sunday. Easy, right? I got my camera ready, as I already knew what I wanted to do on the terrible, terrible drive.
Friday night, stepping off the plane, I had one thing and one thing only on my mind: Double double.
Mission accomplished.
I'm going to take a quick second to mention that there really is nothing like In-n-Out Burger in Texas. Every so often, some ignorant bastard will make the "Whataburger tastes just like In-n-Out" statement. This is wrong. Whataburger is a filthy shithole with burgers that cause explosive gas 99.9% of the time. The burgers are greasy, the fries are for shit, and the staff mopes around like sweatshop workers. There is no comparison. The lack of Double doubles (animal style, with whole grilled onions) is an empty part of my Texas existence, the same kind of emptiness I have from the lack of three-dollar, two-pound Carne Asada Burritos...but back to the story.
Satisfied with the meal and tired from getting drunk on the plane ride, we crashed out, ready for our one day of California before we had to set our backs to the coast and head back to Texas.
Saturday, we prepped for the beach. In my absence from the San Diego area, some shitty law got passed and now alcohol is NOT allowed on the beach. Seriously people, I'm not gone a year and the whole place is falling to shit! No booze on the beach?!?!? It was time to get creative. I had a plan. You get a brief tutorial:
**Getting drunk at the alcohol-free beach**
Step 1: Get yourself a handle of vodka, and 10 Vitamin waters of any flavor
Step 2: Empty the top part of the Vitamin Waters out. There is a helpful crease just above the label that helps you determine just how much to pour out.
Step 3: Top up the partially full Vitamin Waters with the vodka. The bottle of vodka will now be split among the 10 Vitamin Waters, with hardly any to spare.
Step 4: Pack them in a cooler. Be careful. Three of these will have you talking to strangers while pissing on cars.
**Tutorial over**
We went to the beach at Torrey Pines. It was fantastic. Good things were happening. My good friend "Serena" came up from Ocean Beach and we discovered that while you may not be able to chug a beer on the beach, it's still not a huge deal if you roll a doobie:
Thus intoxicated, we wandered up and down the shore. I was in a happy place, smelling the salty air, soaking up the sun, and rocking my new beach towel.
As I do every time I'm home, I said to myself, "Why the FUCK did I leave?"
Drunk and happy, we went to dinner at the Outback, and then out to the casino for some more boozin'.
Sunday, after breakfast, John and I set out for Palm Springs, where I wanted to pick some things up from my Dad's place.
That done, I turned my camera on, set it on the dashboard, and we were off...
(If you waited to watch the video, here's that link again. Enjoy.)
CA to TX in 6 minutes
Click that and then click the "watch in high quality" thingie on the bottom right corner.
Until next time...
Sunday, August 24, 2008
A Very Special Car Show
Suggested Soundtrack: "The Kids" by MGMT
Lots happening, lots happening, and in such rapid succession that I'm having a tough time keeping up. Before I get into the serious shit, I'm gonna cover the fun stuff. Namely, this car show I went to last weekend.
If you know my friend Mike, who is the guy the got me to move to Dallas, you know that he is into custom cars. He has a tricked-out Passat station wagon that he takes to car shows and wins tall trophies with. Well, last weekend there was a car show in Dallas that Mike was not showing in, but that he wanted to check out anyway. I decided to go and bring my camera, since any car show I've been to is chock full of weirdos and idiots, as well as the occasional cool car.
Little did I know that I was walking into the strangest car show ever conceived.
Our first indication that something was different was during the walk from the parking lot into the actual convention center where the show was being held. Car show people look a certain way. The people we were seeing did not look like car show people. There were a lot of kids running around in karate outfits. There were grown men in karate outfits. The real freaky thing was all of the over-tanned ultra-buff people. Like, really buff. It was when we got to the ticket counter that we realized that we were getting into a lot more than just a car show.
There were easels set up with posters on them. The first one we saw said that at 2:30pm, we could meet this guy:
Holy shit, right? This guy is IN THE BUILDING. The poster had ben wrapped in saran wrap for whatever reason, possibly to protect it from staining should some sweaty fanboy try and skip the autograph line and just decide to rub on the poster.
So this was a car show/bodybuilding competition? Okey dokey. Odd, but I could handle that. But this was not all. Behind this poster was another:
Wow. Really? So this is a car show/bodybuilding competition/arm wrestling tournament. Aha. Happens all the time. Wait, wait a minute...
It was at this point I realized where I must be: none other than the highly anticipated IFB Europa Super Show. (http://www.supershowexpo.com/). This was a car show/bodybuilding competition/arm wrestling tournament/weight lifting lift-off/mixed-martial-arts exhibition/yo-yo championship!!!!!!!!!!!!
I was very happy that I had brought my camera.
Tickets were purchased, armbands were put on, and we were in!
Right away, I saw human beings that were so unnatural, so freaky, that I knew I had to somehow photograph them. Problem was, their freakiness was usually that they were extremely buff. HUGE. There were women walking around that could easily punch my head off. OFF. So I knew I had to be sneaky. My camera has a little red light that turns on when I am filming.
...see the light there under my finger?
So pointing the camera at someone, they would know they were being filmed, and then, noticing that I was wearing my sunglasses indoors and laughing at them, they might get mad and, I don't know, stand on my feet and pull my head off. So I needed a plan. I came up with the plan pretty quickly:
Ta-da!!
First, I needed to do a lap with Mike to look at cars. The freaks would have to be photographed as we casually took in the custom vehicles, which were distributed evenly throughout the convention hall.
I took a picture of some car, mostly to make it look like I was an auto freak.
Shiny!
At this point, we were near the weightlifters. So while Mike and our other friend Todd were looking at lifted cars on 20s, I popped over and got as close as I could to the powerlifters. These guys were lifting the equivalent of a Volkswagon Beetle and managing to not shit themselves at the same time.
It was kinda neat, I guess. I really liked the fact that there was a whole sub-competition involving mentally challenged lifters. This is not a joke. I don't mean to be an ass here. I am a sarcastic ass a lot of the time, but this was really quite cool. There were about a dozen kids in their late teens to early twenties that had down syndrome that were lifting huge amounts of weight. It was touching and a bit inspiring as well. Not that I want to be able to dead-lift two tons of metal, but hell, they were enjoying themselves and you can't make fun of that. I decided to move on and find some people I could comment safely on.
This took us back to the cars.
Someone decided to go the creepy route and have a mannequin dressed like Elvis parked next to their car. People with custom cars will frequently have some sort of thing in the vicinity of their car to "set it off," usually a stuffed animal behind the steering wheel, or pictures of the car before it was restored, but this was just bizarre.
Now we were over by the arm wresting.
It was pretty funny. There were different classes, I guess based on the size of your wrestlin' arm. Each match was super quick, and it was all or nothing. I figured they would be best of two out of three, but no. It was "Ready? Go!" and then one guy would utterly crush the other, and then after some polite applause, it was on to the next two. You'd see two big ol' boys in Nascar shirts followed by two thin pimply guys wearing Metallica shirts. There was no rhyme or reason to any of it. The bitch of it was that there was never any struggle. One guy always got quickly decimated, no matter how strong or weak they both looked. I stuck around for some time, hoping to see some miracle bout where the two contestants were so closely matched that their grunts filled the room and made passers-by stop and crane their necks to see what the fuss was about, finally resulting in hand-to-hand pressure that made their fingernails burst off and go ricocheting around the room as spectators and judges alike dove for cover, ending when one man's wrist finally snapped off and the winner slammed the armless hand down on the table and the loser sprayed the front row with blood from his stump, screaming like a girl.
No such luck. I was moving on.
Next up, I saw the America-mobile.
This looked like the car that George W. Bush would, on the final day of his presidency, drive around on the lawn of the White House, doing doughnuts and tearing up the grass while drunk on Coors Light. Shouting "WHOOOOOOO HOOOOOO!" out of the window as country music poured out of the speakers. I shed a patriotic tear and moved on.
Now we were near the flexing competition. I couldn't get close enough to get any good pictures, but you know the drill: impossibly ripped muscle-men flexing on stage as Right Said Fred's "I'm too sexy" plays over the PA. The good stuff was happening on the floor of the show.
First off, the fake tan factor was off the charts here. Later, looking at the official website I realized why:
Spray-on tan?!! Sign me up!!
At the time, I was simply amazed at the orange-ness of these bodybuilders. I got a few shots of some of the crazier people. I tailed this woman for a minute. Look at the shoulders on this lady:
The females were way more interesting. The males were either built like He-Man with the tiny waist and huge chest, or of the old school "fat strong guy" type:
This guy was in good spirits and seemed happy enough, but he reminded me of Bob from "Fight Club." Bob had bitch tits, remember?
This Bob wasn't there quite yet, but he was one blown knee from a huge BMI and a C cup.
Then, I saw something that reminded me why I brought my camera in the first place: Airbrushed hoods. Forget airbrushed tans, this is gold! More commonly seen on the tailgate of the Mexican-American pickup truck and featuring men in sombreros and wolves howling at the moon, the car-show airbrushed hood tells a story about the car or its owner or both, and is usually so fucking awful as to be hilarious. Case in point: Money Hungry.
I LOVED this car. So silly that I almost pissed myself laughing, but scary in that I knew if the owner had seen me he would have stabbed me or broken my nose with brass knuckles. As it was, he was off taking a dump or something, so I could laugh at his car with no fear of retribution, like the coward I am. Here's a close up of that hood.
Note the girl on the left side has visible nipple, and is moaning in pleasure while thinking of $$$$$. What you could not see in this picture is that the main girl in the middle is standing on two alligators (she is holding two chains, which are around their necks). The alligators themselves are eating stacks of hundred dollar bills. This is not made up. I just wish I was I the room when the car's owner told the artist exactly what he wanted on the hood. Holy shit, I'd give a testicle to be there.
The Martial Arts Competition was nothing to write home about, and the pictures I got looked more like foreplay than fighting, so I left them out.
Next up, the Yo-yo contest. There was nothing going on on stage, but as soon as the contestants saw my camera they started showboating. It was cool. Before they started blowing my mind with their mad skills, I got a quick shot of one of the kids who was rocking a unique hairstyle:
It took me a second, but then, a voice in my head said, "Use the force, Nik." AHA!!!!
This was an example of Jedi hair!!
Then, an Asian kid begun spinning TWO yo-yo's like a raver spinning glow sticks. The picture is a bit blurry, but it is testimony of the DIZZYING SPEED with which this guy was twirling his yos.
Not to be outdone, this guy went wild and did some single-yo tricks, keeping things tight and playing it close to the chest, so to speak.
It took me a second before I recognized him. This was Shannon Hoon, the supposedly deceased singer from the hit band Blind Melon!!!!
Allegedly, he died of a heroin overdose, but I know now that it was all a ruse and that he chose the path less traveled, and decided to go Pro Yo Yo.
Our time at the show was coming to an end. But there was still one more treat in store for us.
On our way out, that's when I saw her: The Lady in Red. For fear of my life, I could not get too close to this rare creature. I tiptoed as close as I dared and got a picture as she signed up for some Canadian HGH mailing thing. If she knew my intent, her steroid-induced rage could cause her to tear me apart.
She was spectacular, but mysterious. Gentle, yet strong. A man, yet somehow a woman. Strange and new, yet familiar. Then it hit me: "You think anybody thinks I'm a failure because I go home to Starla at night?"
This was Starla, in the flesh, and scary as hell. I knew if I made her too uncomfortable, I'd be asking for a roundhouse to the face.
It was time to go.
Until next time...
Lots happening, lots happening, and in such rapid succession that I'm having a tough time keeping up. Before I get into the serious shit, I'm gonna cover the fun stuff. Namely, this car show I went to last weekend.
If you know my friend Mike, who is the guy the got me to move to Dallas, you know that he is into custom cars. He has a tricked-out Passat station wagon that he takes to car shows and wins tall trophies with. Well, last weekend there was a car show in Dallas that Mike was not showing in, but that he wanted to check out anyway. I decided to go and bring my camera, since any car show I've been to is chock full of weirdos and idiots, as well as the occasional cool car.
Little did I know that I was walking into the strangest car show ever conceived.
Our first indication that something was different was during the walk from the parking lot into the actual convention center where the show was being held. Car show people look a certain way. The people we were seeing did not look like car show people. There were a lot of kids running around in karate outfits. There were grown men in karate outfits. The real freaky thing was all of the over-tanned ultra-buff people. Like, really buff. It was when we got to the ticket counter that we realized that we were getting into a lot more than just a car show.
There were easels set up with posters on them. The first one we saw said that at 2:30pm, we could meet this guy:
Holy shit, right? This guy is IN THE BUILDING. The poster had ben wrapped in saran wrap for whatever reason, possibly to protect it from staining should some sweaty fanboy try and skip the autograph line and just decide to rub on the poster.
So this was a car show/bodybuilding competition? Okey dokey. Odd, but I could handle that. But this was not all. Behind this poster was another:
Wow. Really? So this is a car show/bodybuilding competition/arm wrestling tournament. Aha. Happens all the time. Wait, wait a minute...
It was at this point I realized where I must be: none other than the highly anticipated IFB Europa Super Show. (http://www.supershowexpo.com/). This was a car show/bodybuilding competition/arm wrestling tournament/weight lifting lift-off/mixed-martial-arts exhibition/yo-yo championship!!!!!!!!!!!!
I was very happy that I had brought my camera.
Tickets were purchased, armbands were put on, and we were in!
Right away, I saw human beings that were so unnatural, so freaky, that I knew I had to somehow photograph them. Problem was, their freakiness was usually that they were extremely buff. HUGE. There were women walking around that could easily punch my head off. OFF. So I knew I had to be sneaky. My camera has a little red light that turns on when I am filming.
...see the light there under my finger?
So pointing the camera at someone, they would know they were being filmed, and then, noticing that I was wearing my sunglasses indoors and laughing at them, they might get mad and, I don't know, stand on my feet and pull my head off. So I needed a plan. I came up with the plan pretty quickly:
Ta-da!!
First, I needed to do a lap with Mike to look at cars. The freaks would have to be photographed as we casually took in the custom vehicles, which were distributed evenly throughout the convention hall.
I took a picture of some car, mostly to make it look like I was an auto freak.
Shiny!
At this point, we were near the weightlifters. So while Mike and our other friend Todd were looking at lifted cars on 20s, I popped over and got as close as I could to the powerlifters. These guys were lifting the equivalent of a Volkswagon Beetle and managing to not shit themselves at the same time.
It was kinda neat, I guess. I really liked the fact that there was a whole sub-competition involving mentally challenged lifters. This is not a joke. I don't mean to be an ass here. I am a sarcastic ass a lot of the time, but this was really quite cool. There were about a dozen kids in their late teens to early twenties that had down syndrome that were lifting huge amounts of weight. It was touching and a bit inspiring as well. Not that I want to be able to dead-lift two tons of metal, but hell, they were enjoying themselves and you can't make fun of that. I decided to move on and find some people I could comment safely on.
This took us back to the cars.
Someone decided to go the creepy route and have a mannequin dressed like Elvis parked next to their car. People with custom cars will frequently have some sort of thing in the vicinity of their car to "set it off," usually a stuffed animal behind the steering wheel, or pictures of the car before it was restored, but this was just bizarre.
Now we were over by the arm wresting.
It was pretty funny. There were different classes, I guess based on the size of your wrestlin' arm. Each match was super quick, and it was all or nothing. I figured they would be best of two out of three, but no. It was "Ready? Go!" and then one guy would utterly crush the other, and then after some polite applause, it was on to the next two. You'd see two big ol' boys in Nascar shirts followed by two thin pimply guys wearing Metallica shirts. There was no rhyme or reason to any of it. The bitch of it was that there was never any struggle. One guy always got quickly decimated, no matter how strong or weak they both looked. I stuck around for some time, hoping to see some miracle bout where the two contestants were so closely matched that their grunts filled the room and made passers-by stop and crane their necks to see what the fuss was about, finally resulting in hand-to-hand pressure that made their fingernails burst off and go ricocheting around the room as spectators and judges alike dove for cover, ending when one man's wrist finally snapped off and the winner slammed the armless hand down on the table and the loser sprayed the front row with blood from his stump, screaming like a girl.
No such luck. I was moving on.
Next up, I saw the America-mobile.
This looked like the car that George W. Bush would, on the final day of his presidency, drive around on the lawn of the White House, doing doughnuts and tearing up the grass while drunk on Coors Light. Shouting "WHOOOOOOO HOOOOOO!" out of the window as country music poured out of the speakers. I shed a patriotic tear and moved on.
Now we were near the flexing competition. I couldn't get close enough to get any good pictures, but you know the drill: impossibly ripped muscle-men flexing on stage as Right Said Fred's "I'm too sexy" plays over the PA. The good stuff was happening on the floor of the show.
First off, the fake tan factor was off the charts here. Later, looking at the official website I realized why:
Spray-on tan?!! Sign me up!!
At the time, I was simply amazed at the orange-ness of these bodybuilders. I got a few shots of some of the crazier people. I tailed this woman for a minute. Look at the shoulders on this lady:
The females were way more interesting. The males were either built like He-Man with the tiny waist and huge chest, or of the old school "fat strong guy" type:
This guy was in good spirits and seemed happy enough, but he reminded me of Bob from "Fight Club." Bob had bitch tits, remember?
This Bob wasn't there quite yet, but he was one blown knee from a huge BMI and a C cup.
Then, I saw something that reminded me why I brought my camera in the first place: Airbrushed hoods. Forget airbrushed tans, this is gold! More commonly seen on the tailgate of the Mexican-American pickup truck and featuring men in sombreros and wolves howling at the moon, the car-show airbrushed hood tells a story about the car or its owner or both, and is usually so fucking awful as to be hilarious. Case in point: Money Hungry.
I LOVED this car. So silly that I almost pissed myself laughing, but scary in that I knew if the owner had seen me he would have stabbed me or broken my nose with brass knuckles. As it was, he was off taking a dump or something, so I could laugh at his car with no fear of retribution, like the coward I am. Here's a close up of that hood.
Note the girl on the left side has visible nipple, and is moaning in pleasure while thinking of $$$$$. What you could not see in this picture is that the main girl in the middle is standing on two alligators (she is holding two chains, which are around their necks). The alligators themselves are eating stacks of hundred dollar bills. This is not made up. I just wish I was I the room when the car's owner told the artist exactly what he wanted on the hood. Holy shit, I'd give a testicle to be there.
The Martial Arts Competition was nothing to write home about, and the pictures I got looked more like foreplay than fighting, so I left them out.
Next up, the Yo-yo contest. There was nothing going on on stage, but as soon as the contestants saw my camera they started showboating. It was cool. Before they started blowing my mind with their mad skills, I got a quick shot of one of the kids who was rocking a unique hairstyle:
It took me a second, but then, a voice in my head said, "Use the force, Nik." AHA!!!!
This was an example of Jedi hair!!
Then, an Asian kid begun spinning TWO yo-yo's like a raver spinning glow sticks. The picture is a bit blurry, but it is testimony of the DIZZYING SPEED with which this guy was twirling his yos.
Not to be outdone, this guy went wild and did some single-yo tricks, keeping things tight and playing it close to the chest, so to speak.
It took me a second before I recognized him. This was Shannon Hoon, the supposedly deceased singer from the hit band Blind Melon!!!!
Allegedly, he died of a heroin overdose, but I know now that it was all a ruse and that he chose the path less traveled, and decided to go Pro Yo Yo.
Our time at the show was coming to an end. But there was still one more treat in store for us.
On our way out, that's when I saw her: The Lady in Red. For fear of my life, I could not get too close to this rare creature. I tiptoed as close as I dared and got a picture as she signed up for some Canadian HGH mailing thing. If she knew my intent, her steroid-induced rage could cause her to tear me apart.
She was spectacular, but mysterious. Gentle, yet strong. A man, yet somehow a woman. Strange and new, yet familiar. Then it hit me: "You think anybody thinks I'm a failure because I go home to Starla at night?"
This was Starla, in the flesh, and scary as hell. I knew if I made her too uncomfortable, I'd be asking for a roundhouse to the face.
It was time to go.
Until next time...
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