Take that, snow! I’ve got boots on this time!
When I feel like disappearing up my own ass, I think about the things I care about. I don’t mean family and friends–that’s boring. Saying you care about your family and the people around you is like saying your car is really good because it goes forward. It’s as close to saying nothing as you can get without using silence. Continue reading
I don’t have a great picture to go here, so here’s one of me eating waffle fries.
I’m a giant fucking production. At minimum, it takes me 8 pills and one injection to get ready to eat, which means it costs about $70 for me to even think about having dinner. (luckily I have insurance right now, so I’m not paying that directly). If I ever had to pay $70 for a meal, I’d crap myself in protest. Even if I decided not to eat today, it still costs roughly $60 for me to wake up. Sure, I could wake up and not do my pulmozyme, but it’s not worth it. Continue reading
Here’s my main CF related problem right now: I’m sick enough to not want to go to work, but not sick enough to justify it to myself. I don’t earn a lot of sick time, so I don’t want to waste it on lungs that feel like they’re coated in a layer of dried pancake batter (wet cement or GTFO). I could get a leave that would enable me to call out using vacation time, but I burn a lot of that on doctor’s appointments anyway—I have three within the next month. I could probably work out a deal where I call out unpaid, but I have $700 worth of medical bills on my desk from those doctor’s appointments I used my vacation time on. There’s nothing Earth shattering happening right now, just a bunch of shit I don’t feel like dealing with. Maybe it’d be easier if I could breathe. Continue reading
Being a diabetic vampire means I have to check the blood sugar of my victims.
I meant to write a ton of pieces for Halloween, but making the “Genetic Decree” song/video took much longer than expected. So instead, enjoy this handy guide to all the Halloween crap I’ve made over the years. Continue reading
Through his cameo in Wayne’s World, Alice kicked through my proverbial sternum and into my heart.
The last few times I’ve seen Alice Cooper, he’s been opening for another act. An appropriate reaction would be “Why?”, but watch Alice open a show and it becomes clear: He’s hungry. He loves to hide under other people’s beds—Rob Zombie, Marilyn Manson and Motley Crue—and drag their assembled masses into his nightmare for a little while.
The nightmare has had to adapt a lot over the years. Alice doesn’t receive the same “chameleon” praise afforded to Bowie because although Alice has changed throughout the years, he remains distinctly himself, acting not like a chameleon, but as a snake, shedding his skin, wrapping around your neck, squeezing just hard enough to scare you.
This is the face I made through the entire movie.
Thinking that I might have been too harsh on it in it’s initial release, I recently rewatched Halloween Resurrection. I was hoping it would be entertainingly bad; instead, it was so bad that my tv doesn’t turn on anymore. I have to assume my TV would rather die than have to display that movie again, even if it was just to see if the commentary track had an apology on it.
In a sentence, Frank is the story of a struggling song writer—in the sense that he’s never written a song—who ends up living in a cabin with a band led by a man who never takes off his papier-mâché head. Continue reading
Pictured: Me dead.
Over the weekend I went to visit my grandmother in her nursing home. I know I should go more often and I probably would if 9pm were an acceptable time to visit an old person. As it stands, having to wake up an hour early to visit her before I head to work is just difficult enough that not doing it makes me feel the exact amount of terrible required to deem myself a victim of circumstance (“Getting up is so hard, I can’ breathe…blah, blah, blah”) instead of a monster. Continue reading
I believe him to be a close cousin of Bayou Billy.
Back in 2003, I and about 83% of my friends worked at a hotel in the middle of Nowhere, CT. A Minnesota based chain had thrown a franchise out in the woods in hopes of catching some of casino cast-offs on their search for reasonably priced accommodations. I was young and this was my first full-time job, so I learned a lot about how the working world works. I also learned that I can do 7 revolutions in an industrial dryer, but that’s a story for another time.
This story is the Ballad of Bayou Rick.
I like comics that ask the big questions like “Who dares to defy me??”
**THIS POST CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR GUARDIANS OF THE GALAXY**
In my younger days, few things were more important than being able to say “I told you so.” This need burned particularly bright when it came to movies. Nowadays, we dismiss this as hipster bullshit—“Oh yeah, I saw that before it was cool—but back in the videostore era, boasting after finding that sweet nugget of gold was your reward for panning through so much shit. Remember that for every cult movie that thrives, some Lewis and Clark motherfuckers had to watch hundreds of hours of bullshit.