Tattered Bits of Brain

"Guys I'd Probably Like To Do If I Were Gay, Which I'm Not."

2005-08-28T19:39:00.000-07:00

For the first installment of this cutting edge new feature, the man I'd like to highlight for my nomination of "Guys I'd Probably Like to Do, If I Were Gay, Which I'm Not" is:

Matthew McConaughey

And not just 'cuz he's the flava o' the minute for one Penelope Cruz.

Matt seems to me to be the kind of guy who probably always wonders what all the fuss is about?

Watching him in his various roles, I can't help but get the image of a pretty down to earth guy who is serious about his art. He loves the attention, but kind of laughs about it, and maybe figures, "Hey, they want to take my picture? Go for it. It's your film..."

You know, Matt and me, we'd be buds. It would probably help that I'm not ACTUALLY gay, and as such, wouldn't keep making leading suggestions about a quick dip in the hot tub and just one more glass of Pinot Noir.

Yeah, Matt and me, we'd hang. I'll bet he drinks domestic beer. Probably a Microbrew, though, cuz, well, he IS Matt McConaughey. Why Drink Schlitz when there's Hale's Moss Bay Extra?

And that accent, I'm telling ya, if I was gay (which I'm not) that rolling, laid-back drawl of his would get me all a twitter. In theory, of course.

I usually can figure a guy is good looking if I find myself thinking, "Damn. I'd give my left nut to wake up one morning and look like that guy."

So, I think I can safely say that Matthew McConaughey is one of those guys.

Hat's off to ya, Matt. You virile, manly stud you. Er, I mean, well, uh....

Your esoteric word for the day

2005-04-20T21:14:00.000-07:00

Febrile

Enjoy.

Funniest damn thing I've ever read.

2005-04-18T02:52:00.000-07:00

Red pills found behind the sofa cushion.

But then, I have a wacked sense of humor.

Thanks to Jeff Goldstein at Protein Wisdom.

In defense of the the Man Purse

2005-03-02T17:57:00.000-08:00

I have to ask, is it wrong to think that a Man Purse is an idea whose time has finally come? That {he glances askance, left, then right} I really want one? That, okay, I have all sorts of design ideas for one rolling around in my head that I think would make me a million $$ if I had a heavy duty sewing machine, a couple of yards of heavy duty nylon webbing and a bunch of velcro? Oh, and if I knew how to sew worth a crap?

I don't know how many times I've come home at the end of the day and it takes a full 15 minutes just to empty out my pockets onto the corner of my dresser. Wallet, keys, change. Wups -- pens in this pocket. That's right, stuffed my checkbook in cargo pocket. Along with those two handy coupons I found on the bulletin board in the lobby, now crumpled nearly beyond recognition. More pens, my palm pilot, the wrapper from my power bar, and that cool looking piece of rock I found by the construction site. Four receipts of various size and description.

All told, I'm about 7 pounds lighter now.

Then I think about all the times I needed this or that, and with a quick "D'oh" followed by the requisite smack on the forehead, I realize that I've left it in a pocket of the jeans currently at some unknown depth in the laundry pile back home...a good 20-minute drive away.

Chicks have it easy. Chicks have it figured out. One handy, multi-pouched and pocketed receptacle for all the various odds, ends, and random effluent and leavings of their frenetic lives.

Men still labor under the social stigma that carrying a purse is, like, totally gay. I say enough! Let me clarify here, however, that I am not proposing that men be cleared hot to develop the same irrational obsession with a nice designer Gucci handbag that leads an otherwise rational woman to spend $800 "holy-shit-you-gotta-be-kidding-me-800-frickin-DOLLARS-fer-a-friggin-PURSE?!" dollars on a purse, just because it goes nicely with those new pumps she just bought.

That would be gay.

Men need a bag, but a Manly Bag. Call it a tote. No, wait, I have it: men need a satchel. Satchels are not gay. Satchels are manly. John Wayne himself threw uncountable numbers of satchel charges into uncountable numbers of enemy pillboxes, usually doing so under a hail of murderous gunfire.

Quintessential manliness.

Even the WORD "purse" is inherently unmanly; you almost feel the need to lisp just saying it. "Satchel," on the other hand, is a virile, rugged, squinty-eyed-from-staring-into-the-desert-sun-for-too-long, fist-clenching, teeth-grittin', tear-off-a chunk-of-raw-meat-from-the-carcass-of-the-vicious-carnivore-you-just-killed-with-yer-bare-freakin'-HANDS kind of word. No lisping involved whatsoever.

In a crisis situation, women will often hit muggers with their purse. For men, in a crisis situation we toss our satchels into the enemy bunker and save the entire platoon.

Fundamentally different approach to problem solving.

Think of the convenience, the increase in productivity and efficiency of having all of those scattered bits of this and that in one, handy location that you carry with you wherever you go? No sissy little strap, but a three-inch wide strip of industrial strength webbing with a thick slab of leather for the shoulder. No prissy gold buckles here; just big plastic snap clips like you'd find on your top-of-the-line REI survive-the-worst-friggin-blizzard-in-the-history-of-summit-attempts-on-Everest backpacks.

Inside you'd have compartments for your PDA, keys, fourteen different kind of pens and pencils, aftershave, thumb drive, handheld GPS, small arms ammunition, K-bar fighting knife, survival rations, and tickets to the Mets' next home game. Don't forget pockets on the outside for your cell-phone, Leatherman, a short strand of piano wire and two hand-grenades.

The color would have to be black or olive drab. Camouflaged, perhaps. Eggshell and Taupe are definitely out.

Men need to step forward and embrace this brave new vision for masculine liberation. Demand your satchel, and carry it with pride!

On sale soon at most local surplus stores, Sportsman's Warehouse, Home Depot, and that delightful little boutique across from Nieman's down on Main!

A Horror Story :

2005-02-24T03:48:00.000-08:00

"Terror at the Mini-Mart"

"Do you take checks?"

"I'm sorry, sir, no checks." He felt a sudden tightness in his chest, the first hints of a panicky fear. Oh please, no.

"Credit Card?"

"No, sir. Cash Only, I'm afraid." The tightness became a vise around his ribs, crushing against his heart. He gulped once, then twice, and with a trembling hand, drew out his wallet and fished out a couple of bills.

"How much was it again?" he asked quietly, dreading the answer.

"$2.35"

The vise slammed shut, and a blackness descended over him. He handed her two "ones". The third remained pinched between his trembling fingers. She tugged, then she pulled, but the last dollar wouldn't come free. "Uhm, sir? I still need 35 more cents."

His breath was coming in short, desperate gasps, and his hand was shaking convulsively. "FINE!" he yelled. "FINE! JUST TAKE IT!!" He threw the dollar bill at her, grabbed the handles of the plastic bag holding his half-gallon of milk, and spun away from the counter, lurching towards the door. He had to escape the voice, had to get away before she said it...said what he knew, just KNEW was coming. He staggered towards the automatic door, the heels of his hands crushed against his ears, the carton of milk still clutched in his fist slamming painfully against his chest with each stumbling step. Don't say it....please dear god don't saaaayyy iiiiiittt!

"Sir!" she called out from behind the counter. "Sir? Your change! You forgot your change!"

There it was. There was no escaping it now. Well, maybe....maybe..."Just keep it! It's fine!" he called back over his shoulder.

"Sir! No, I can't. Here...!" She was coming. Why wouldn't she just let it go? She was out from behind the counter now, pursuing him, relentlessly. The doors! There they were. They slid apart like the gates of Heaven, and he ran through them like a damned soul pardoned from Hell. "Sir!? Wait!" The huntress after her prey.

The heat from the parking lot slammed into his chest like the fist of an angry god. It was strangely welcome, as it meant he was out of the store, closer to safety. His car was just a few steps away. He fumbled frantically with the keys, cursing in frustration when his shaking, panicky fingers couldn't seem to grab the right one. Then he was there, the car, his haven, his sanctuary. He could hear her footsteps coming closer, faster, the heavy tread of the Grim Reaper. The key skipped across the lock face once, then twice. Damnit! Finally it slid home and he jerked the door open, threw the milk into the passenger seat and nearly leapt behind the wheel, pulling the door shut behind him. "Siiirrr!" She was there, at the car, banging on the window with...with...IT clutched tightly in her fist. Only a thin piece of glass between him and that terrible evil he could never seem to escape . He jammed down on the powerlock button so hard his finger stung, but the reassuring "thunk" of the locks engaging filled him with such relief that he quickly forgot the pain. He stared straight ahead, his hands gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles glowed white. Leave me alone leave me alone leave me alone, he muttered over and over in his head.

"Sir, I can't keep this. Here." Her hand was extending, slim and pale, like a claw from some skeletal apparition, the fingers slowly opening like the petals of some poisonous flower. No..no..NOOOOOO!

He felt his head turn as if of its own volition. His eyes locked onto her palm, the horrible sight revelealed there burning into his mind. His eyes filled with tears -- he wouldn't escape this time. Sometimes he did, sometimes there was a tip jar, sometimes he was fast enough to get away, but not this time.

She stood there, staring at him with that concerned yet confused look they so often had. She meant no harm. She didn't know.

Slowly, his left hand relaxed its death grip on the wheel, and moved slowly, hesitantly to the button for the power windows. With a sobbing sigh of resignation, he exerted the small amount of downward pressure that would bring him face to face with his nemesis. With the brokeness of a man facing a firing squad, he extended his own hand next to hers. Tears streamed down his face as she turned her slim, fragile hand upwards and slid the two quarters, a dime, and a nickle into his own clammy palm. They burned against his skin like hot coals, little silver disks of loathing.

"Sir? Sir? What's wrong? What's the matter?" It wasn't her fault. She meant well, she was only doing her job. So kind, yet so unknowingly cruel.

The words came out as whispers, croaked from a parched, aching throat across dry, quivering lips. "Can't...can't you..." He paused, took a breath, and continued. "...can't you t-t-tell?"

Her innoncent young face took on such a puzzled look. "Can't I tell what?" she asked.

He looked into her unworldly blue eyes for an eternal instant, and in a voice heavy with anguish, spat out his terrible, shameful secret. "Can't you tell?" he asked pleadingly, paused, and then, there it was.

"I'm...I'm frightened of change."

Surreal Life? More like the Twilight Zone....

2005-02-21T17:57:00.000-08:00

.
Okay, seriously though. Does anyone else think that maybe Brigitte Nielsen has had one too many drinks out of an aluminum can to go anywhere NEAR a broken-down, inbred-looking, gold-toof-havin' nutcase piece of road pizza like Flavor Flav? Maybe she took one too many hits in the head with a broadsword when she was doing her own stunts in Red Sonja.

Rumor has it there's a spinoff in the works (entitled, appropriately enough "Strange Love") with just him(it) and her (other it). There's one to clear yer calendar for!

Headlines You Can't Make Up

2005-02-21T15:39:00.000-08:00

"Doctors Remove Baby's 2nd Head"
Weekly World News? Nope: Worldnetdaily.com. It's actually a pretty heart-wrenching story, but MAN what an headine!

Daily Profundidiocy

2005-02-09T18:45:00.000-08:00

Winners are just whiners who have dropped the h and added an n.

Life - Tasted, Savored, or Smelled?

2005-02-08T03:32:00.000-08:00

I read somewhere that you are supposed to take a bite out of life. So I tried it.

I got little bits of Life stuck in my teeth like popcorn husks, or flecks of broccoli. Crumbs fell down my chin and got grease stains on my only good pair of dress slacks. I went to take another bite when I wondered, is taking bites out of Life really such a smart idea? What happens when you realize you've been an utter pig and taken too many bites, and suddenly, there's nothing left? Is that when you die, when there are no bites of Life left to take?

When you take a big mouth-watering, jaw-cracking, lip-smacking chunk out of life, tearing into it like a rotweiller on the mailman's ass, washing it down with an ice cold cup of whimsy, and a dash of devil-may-care thrown in for spice, what does it do to your digestion? I can only imagine what the burps would smell like.

Is life supposed to be savored in little sips, like an amazing wine, or guzzled like an existential gatorade? Is it chewed, or slurped, licked, or nibbled? Can you really take a bite right off the side, or do you need to cut it up into manageable-sized pieces first? Does it peel off or chunk? Clumps or flakes? Does it taste good sprinkled on peaches?

What if you chose to only sniff at life, huffing and chuffing your way around the edge like some neurotic bloodhound? What if you jammed your shnoz right up into Life's sweaty crotch and took a big wiff, like the neighbor's dog who just can't seem to stop doing the same thing to every poor sot who has the misfortune of trundling up the sidewalk of the house next door? What would you smell? What would your nose tell you about Life from such an intimate inhalation?

When taking my tasty sample of Life, I wonder if I'd use an ice cream scooper, or just a melon baller? A pitchfork or a pair of tweezers? Would I take a handful, or more? Or would more than a handful be a waste? One considers it self-evident that it is far better to have your arms around a waist than have waste around your arms.

Can Life be reheated, or is it only good fresh? Questions such as these plague my mind at night, but I fear, answers are not to be found. Madness to hope, and yet...

Terrorism Lite

2005-02-06T19:38:00.000-08:00

As I surf through the blogosphere using the "Next Blog" button, I've come across numerous ambush sites which have embeded malicious code in the Blog's HTML, with some sort of pop-up window or java script that requires a password, then won't accept one, or demands that you "Upgrade Your Internet Explorer," or any number of other annoying payloads.

Knowing what I do about computers, I'm pretty sure that clicking "OK" will likely cause something very bad to happen to my computer. So I click the "X" in the upper right corner, but even then I am held hostage by some looping code-string unti I ultimately have to "end task" using the task manager.

People that hijack websites like that are the same ones who, in high school or the frat in college, would offer you a drink of their soda, only to find out it was the can they were using for their tobacco spit, or maybe even filled with piss.

Theses are the kind of people who lay in wait on the side of the road with a supposedly broken down car until a good samaritan finally stops -- then they shoot the kind-hearted indvidual in the head and steal their car.

Ambush sites are terrorism, plain and simple. Maybe planes don't crash and burn, maybe buildings don't collapse, but the intent in the heart of the cyberterrorist is the same as any jihadist.

They may even think it's "funny", but it's just plain evil. I put them in the same category as people who write computer viruses, or send bulk email spam. They are prime candidates for a retroactive abortion.

Burn in hell, cyberterrorists, burn in hell.

Cleaning Day

2005-02-06T01:46:00.000-08:00

I was doing a little system maintenance on my computer, and clicked on the "Delete Cookies" button of my internet browser. The four remaining snickerdoodles on my plate disappeared.

I must admit to being a little hesitant about clicking on the button that says, "Clear History."

Avoidance of pain

2005-02-05T02:21:00.000-08:00

I have herewith and henceforth decided to open all beer bottles with a bottle opener, rather than shredding the inside of my fingers in a desparate and ultimately futile attempt to remove the &$^#*$% screwtops (undoubtedly affixed by an overzealous capping machine, no doubt working off its unexpressed anxiety at the sudden popularity of draft microbrews).

And, in case you were interested, my Google toolbar has successfully blocked 701 annoying pop-up ads. I do SO love technology.

Why Bits of Brain?

2005-02-04T20:29:00.000-08:00

Because sometimes I feel like writing things that don't makes sense, or if they do, it's in a manner that makes your brain ache, perhaps even spasm, and quite often brain cells will slough off, much like dead skin or dandruff, from the sheer cataclysmic force of one thought or another shattering the sub-atomic cohesion of the cellular bonds.

So, as these random bits of cerebral flatulence rattle around my cranial cavity, calving off chunks and bits of cortical tissue which eventually find their way down my arms and into my fingertips like sperm traveling through a fallopian tube, the tattered bits of brain will settle here in this blog, like dust bunnies under a bed, or bits of popcorn under a movie seat. Or the little desicated chunks of bread that collect under the toaster. Or whatever the hell that stuff is that falls out when you turn your computer keyboard upside and shake it out. Thats it! Yes! Thats it! The random accumulation of deterius from weeks of snacking that lie dormant and undiscovered inside the workings of a keyboard until some equally random event dislodges them and they sift and drift down into a strangely unappetizing collage on your desktop, a smorgasboard of crumbs, cerebral or otherwise.

That is what this blog is all about. An incautious exhumation of things better left buried. A disinterment of mouldering, putrescent grandiloquence, roused from whatever deep catacomb of thought by a morbid curiousity and whimsical disregard for the careful restraints of sanity.