I'm a PC

I've always been a PC, though before that I was a Commodore 64.  I was the computer geek you made fun of in school, and also the one who helped fix your computer when it became cool to have one.  I didn't mind either role, and I kinda appreciated the latter, as it signified the accepance of PCs in our world.  I was becoming a bit more cool.

I've used Macs for 25 years, but I never felt at home with one.  I missed the second mouse button, an eject button on disc drives (they likely were before your time), and more than anything, I missed the ability to do stuff.  Underpowered and under-gamed, there wasn't much a Mac could do before it crashed.  Even when Steve Jobs came back iMacs and iPods gained conciousness, they were still underpowered and overpriced, but then things changed, almost as if the Mac went through puberty and grew a pair.  People began to see iPods as cool, and they opened up to Apple.  Apple finally had an operating system that didn't crash, and before long they became pretty PCs that could even run Windows.  Then they started to get cocky.  The Mac started taunting me with an endles stream of commercials, mocking me.  No matter what I watched, it was there, not quite as bad as those damned "Saved by Zero" commercials.  Couldn't the Dell Dude stand in for the I'm a PC guy?  Maybe they could just smoke a bowl and get along together, and not mock me?

This was all still rather trite and silly, as no one I knew and respected used a Mac.  Sure some people dabbled with one, a dirty weekend fling or something, but they showered up and returned to their true love, the PC.  That all changed this week, when my homie decided to take his Mac envy to the next level.  He looked, he touched, and he bought into the hype.  Couldn't there be a Cheaters style show for these circumstances?  Couldn't we just Punk him and shame him into getting a PC instead?  All would be forgiven, and maybe we could just down a beer and laugh about it.

You see it's not that he's a lame poser, wooed by style and marketing schtick.  No, he's genuinely cool.  Ladies like him, guys like him; he sings, he writes; and he can make a mean homemade jalapeno popper.  What's worse is that he's molding young minds, so we haven't just lost one to the cause, but maybe four!  Now whenever I come over, the Mac will be there, staring me down and saying, he's mine bitch.  I'll have to keep an eye out for a Bang & Olufsen catelog or  Scientology's dreaded E-Meter.  I don't even know if I can stop myself from slashing the tires on the Prius that he'll inevitably be crusing around in.

I'm a PC, and I'm just not cool enough for a Mac.  I'm off to take a long shower to wash away my shame.

My little Fight Club

For whatever reason, Fight Club, both in it's book and movie forms resonated with me. I'm not sure if it's being stuck in a corporate America morass, a fondness for Ikea, or just a taste for violence. Whatever, it's cool, I'm cool, and I'm doing my part--well if you ignore those first two rules.

Do I show up to work with shiners, spit out needless extra teeth in meetings, or try to pick fights at work? Maybe, but that's beside the point. Fight Club is bigger than Tyler Durden, it was an institution--a way of life. That's what I'm on to. While the soap making has yet to kick into full gear, the ass kicking is alive and well. I guess my fight club started when I had two eager disciples who weren't separated by bars, but bloodlines tended to quash matters more than steel bars. Fresh blood, new blood, hungry blood really livened things up.

Michael Vick really got into a quagmire with his whole operation, but he had it all wrong. Rather than train animals to be aggressive, violent, and hungry, one can just adopt ones who have that potential. Then all you have to do is feed, nurture, and support them. In time it all takes care of itself; all you need is a camera. Leo and Adler (above) sometimes have epic cat fights, but they are nothing compared to the earth shaking chaos that is a Kuma and Stuart bout. Kuma is sorta like an Emo Andre the Giant. Big, strong, but somehow not that menacing. Stuart is rather like X-Pac, little, greasy, and really really really hard to root for. At first Stuart defied logic and all reason, by whipping up on Kuma. Poor Kuma wasn't getting enough calories to have the energy to fight back. A hearty diet, some encouragement, and maybe a little goading, and Kuma the Giant found himself. Stuart was never the same.

Things got worse for Stuart, as little Magnus is fast becoming the Kimbo Slice of Columbus. He's never ran from a fight, and I've never seen fear in his eye. The little warrior tears toys from Kuma's mouth, makes Stuart run like a coward, and has even tried to gnaw his daddy into submission. His training has just began, and he's gaining a pound a day. We may have to bring in Godzilla to give him a good workout or fly him to Spain to run with the bulls. Until then, Kuma and Stuart will have to do. Poor Stuart!

My Dream

You know I actually write a gazillion cryptoblogs, but many never really become tangible, thus the dearth of blogs lately. This got me thinking about my lifelong ambition, my manifestation of the "American Dream" (btw isn't it rather ethnocentric of us Americans to assume such aspirations are exclusively American? What's the Canadian dream? never mind, that was expressed in Strange Brew). Anyway, I was was thinking about not writing a blog about writing a blog about something I dream of that I always wanted to do but never have--kinda like the blog I wasn't writing ...

Gosh, no wonder I get headaches, it's like some tangle of wires thrown in a drawer! Still with me? Ok, my dream, the Cryptozoo! Duwha? We've all been to zoos, and most of us live to tell (those jackasses who harrass innocent and rather bored tigers excluded), and well they're big expensive, and the market is rather saturated. Yeah, elephants are adorable, Sun Bears are cute, and we've all seen monkey masturbate. Been there done that. My dream is so much grander, a zoo for animals that don't really exist! A cryptozooological paradise!

Who needs an orangutan when you can have a sasquatch? Who needs goats in a petting zoo when you can have the goat sucker! Who needs a zebra when you can have a unicorn! This is stuff P.T. Barnum can only dream of, and now I can only dream of! The beauty of my innovation isn't the wonderous nature of the critters, as others have already made them up (moonshine, marijuana, and other vices may have played a role as well--is it a coincidence that big foot gets sighted in forrests with shrooms or Nessie gets spotted by drunken fishermen?), rather it is the limited overhead. Yes this is a business (I suppose that's the American aspect of the "American Dream"), and there are costs and consumables.

The costs, next to none. It's a cryptozoo, so once the animal actually exists, well then it belongs in a real zoo. As long as it's a zoo for make believe animals, there only needs to be make believe exibits. A fenced in area with trees, large foot prints, maybe a nice pile of poo (readily available thanks to owning a Saint Bernard) and voila! an exhibit of a sasquatch. Set up some interesting sound effects, pay a cryptozookeeper to stand there and talk about seeing the sasquatch a little bit ago (heck there are whack jobs who would do it for free--and not even know how full of shit they are!). Next to that a pond, with a smoke machine running full tilt, maybe a few odd shaped logs floating around (and a beer cart selling concessions to boost "sightings"), and you have a Loch Ness Monster display. A few gnawed up goat carcased, a stand selling souvineer barf bags, and you have a chupacabra lair. The list goes on and on ... Oh, and don't forget the nightly alien light show!

As for the consumables, well that's the souvineer stand. Who would want to go to the worlds only crytozoo and not come home with a cute plush Abominal Snowman or the even more Abominal Snowwoman? How about souvineer sasquatch poo (time to turn Kuma into a cash cow)? T-shirts, lunch boxes, goat meat, the list goes on and on.

Any investors?

Return of an Old Friend

In times like these, with turmoil all over the world, soldiers off fighting wars, and people having to say hard goodbyes--sometime forever, it often seems so unreal.

Sadly for me it was all too real. It's so hard seeing a friend disappear for so long; harder still seeing him come back in a box; and worst of all opening the box and seeing someone else. It's all so fucked up.

At least there was something in the box, as it led to closure, and ultimately new beginnings, but dammit there was a part of me that left, and while I looked for it in the box it was gone.

My consolation prize, one month of X-Box Live Gold membership. Well I can at least use it on the replacement unit they sent me, and I can go fight in wars online. God Bless America!

I'm doing my part

Today at work I noticed a poster by the elevator from the Mid-Ohio food bank, which said (among other things):

Over 1.8 million Ohioans don't know where their next meal will come from

I re-read that trying to figure out its significance, as well as understand how food can collect interest at a bank (I tend to only get mold, which isn't exactly the kind of returns I look for). Anyway, these bankers seem rather concerned at the lack of planning, so I emailed Liz to verify what we will be eating. Based on that and the restaurant we discussed last night, I think I know where we will be eating tonight.

Fuck they have THREE locations! Where will we go? Where will OUR next meal come from. Damnit!!!! Over 1,200,002 Ohioans won't know where their next meal will come from. We need to get on top of this people. We'll get our act together, you too! Make plans!!!

Now I can Flick People Off!

For the first time in my life I am writing as a normal person, as I no longer am the freak that I have always been. For those of you who only know me on MySpace, I've been carrying on a lie. I tried to fit in, and I may have duped you folks. I feel terrible, but you see it's not easy dealing with the way things were.

Well now things have been fixed. I can't wait to buy gloves; I can't wait to count on my fingers; I can't wait to hold a girls hand, as it will be so much more natural now. You see, I suffered from hexadactyly.

It may seem shocking, but I had six fingers on each hand. As a kid I was ridiculed and dismissed as a freak. In time I learned to take advantage of the situation by becoming a world class pitcher with a wicked curve ball (you'll be amazed how much extra spin you get with 25% more fingers). I also developed some great ball handing skills playing basketball (they used to call me white chocolate for some reason). It was all bitter sweet, as after a big play or after the game, no one wanted a high six. Not even members of the other team would shake my hands. Alone and dejected, winning didn't seem to matter. Soon nothing in life mattered. Girls wouldn't want to be near me, guys teased me, and even my own parents shunned me. I was a complete failure in life, so much so that when I tried to kill myself, my extra finger got caught behind the trigger. I had to have the gun sawed off of my hand, and sure enough I was subjected to even harsher insensitivities.

I moved off to college, and things became better. I tried to hide my awkward paw from everyone, and things seemed normal. One day this cute chic noticed, and she seemed to stare—Damn! Not this again. She turned, and she looked as if she were going to run away, but she pulled a tail out of her jeans (with that odd bulge in her pants, I was worried she may have been something weirder like a tranny). She smiled, and I waved my six fingers at her (her name is Amber). We quickly bonded, and it felt so wonderful to finally have a friend. Time passed, and everything was wonderful, until … One day we were rolling around in the grass in front of Library West, and Amber's tail popped out. Surrounded by Krishnas and other oddities, it almost didn't stick out. Sadly a talent scout for the circus was there, and Amber had the chance of her lifetime to be with other odd people and get to go to a city filled with what could best be described as rejects. She was offered a scholarship to join FSU's Circus (I'm not shitting you, the fucking dump has an on campus circus, complete with degree programs).

After that heartbreak, I moved to Ohio, where I read farming accidents can be quite common, and fingers usually are the first to go. It's hard to find work when you're from out of state, try not to shake hands, and ask how often accidents happen (with an odd tone implying that more is better). Well, I ended up working my ass off, getting splinters (in all 12 fingers), and I left dejected and with all my fingers intact.

Then I went to Columbus, started working at Nationwide in hopes that insurance will cover the procedure to make me normal. Getting hired was tough, because I needed finger prints for state and federal licenses, and well mine are a little outside the box. Literally, there are boxes for 5 fingers, how rude. What about people like me? Anyway, that is behind me, as are my two extra fingers. The operation was a success, and I'm figuring out what to do with those extra fingers. They have been such a part of my life; I don't want to throw them away. Any ideas?

The Death of a Dream

I recently returned from the 28th annual Rumble in the Bronx Breakdance and Beatbox Championship. This has been the premier event of the American Breakdance and Beatbox Association (ABBA). Lately I've been reconnecting with old friends and interests while also making cool new friends and trying new things. Well for those of you who don't know me from back in the day, I can bring itand I come correct.

I arrive, ghetto blaster and cardboard box in tow. I only sign up for the breakdancing contest, having sworn off of beatboxing after I got screwed at my best chance at winning with the cancellation of the 2002 competition due to SARs. I stretch out, and look around at a pretty hard-core crowd. An unfamiliar voice yells out my old nickname, "Cracker", which I heard so often back home when I was breakdancing and ballin back in the day. I guess my reputation has preceded me. I must be the guy to beat--I am THE MAN!

I entered the freestyle routine competition; only the elite of elite dare enter this competition. By some mix up, my routine came towards the beginning of the event, as typically top competitors get the honor of going last. Perhaps someone forgot that 1999 honorable mention I received in the ABBA sanctioned Fleming Island Open (Caucasian division). Things started poorly when I tripped on my moonwalk, but I tried to recover by doing the worm. That didn't work too well either, but I was feeling it. I threw myself into a mighty windmill, which was the low point of the show. I spun out of control and kicked a little girl in the head. At that point the crowd became rather angry, and the friendly calls of "hey Cracker" became "Get off the stage you mutha fuckin' Cracker!" Well, at that point, ridiculed and dejected, I left the stage and drove home. I didn't even remember to stop and load up on knock-off Kate Spade purses for upcoming birthday and Christmas gifts.

Have I lost all my moves? Is Fleming Island not among the elite breakdancing hotspots? Am I too white? Well, I guess there is a little bit of yes to all of those answers. A not-so good end to a not-so good week. Now I'll have to refocus my efforts on the upcoming Ohio Rock Paper Scissors Championship.

Me and the Midgets

I just got back from Kentucky where I attended the annual Paducah Midget Festival. Now it may seem odd being 6' 7" and going to a midget festival, and that's because it is. I usually pass on these things these days, but as a three time winner of the Clay County Fair midget tossing bonanza, I sometimes want to relive the glory days.

It's all bitter sweet, as I've been retired from the circuit since my partner Oscar died in a tragic midget bowling accident. You form quite a bond as a giant-midget pair, and he really loved to be thrown about--for distance, for height, and he was great at accuracy. I'd toss him up and he'd land like a laser guided bomb. Well, now I needed to find myself a new partner.

I figured I'd start by making a showing at the local Holiday Inn, knowing the bar would be a good place to begin. I walk in there, and it's like a scene out of the Star Wars Cantina, only with midgets doing karaoke--well, I see all that once I look down, as it looked like an empty bar at first. I guess I must have made a grand entrance, as everyone seemed to take notice. The bartender didn't exactly make me welcome by saying we don't serve there kid here, as he pointed at me. Oh well, I guess I didn't need a beer that bad. So I got down on my knees and crawled about, meeting and greeting the little folk.

I soon discovered that no one really wanted to be tossed (apparently dwarf tossing is an extreme sport among little people), and they actually were just there to be around other little folks. Fortunately they saw past my ignorance and enormousness, and we became friends. They shared their beer, and we all toasted Oscar. Stretch even sang Free Falling in his honor. Before long, the proclaimed me an honorary midget--er little person, and when I left, they would take turns crawling on top of the bar to be able to stand on the bar and give me a hug.

I didn't get to toss a midget, but it was a worthwhile trip. I was able to put the passing of Oscar behind me, meet new friends, and I realized that the rednecks back home can be quite cruel. I still don't feel bad, as I knew I helped Oscar live his dream. Oh, and I found out that the annual national midget tossing convention is on the other side of Kentucky, in Buckhorn.