Extra! Extra! Attention to the three or four people who read this!
In the near future, I am going to be writing some stuff for a new Twin Cities hip hop website/magazine, Mill City Scene (www.millcityscene.com).
Please bookmark it, make it your homepage, and then purchase some advertising so that it can make money and then I can be eventually paid for my work.
I plan on writing some stuff that will be up in the next few weeks, and I'm sure you just can't wait to read my nerdy white boy perspective on a hip hop scene I haven't paid much attention to for several years.
Also, if you can introduce me to Slug, or P.O.S., or Brother Ali, or any other local rapper so that I can interview them or something that would be great because I have no way of doing so on my own. And I'm basically on my own with this, so we'll see what kind of articles I actually end up writing. I hope they will accept pseudo-noir claptrap about missed phone calls, because that's kind of my specialty.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Monday, October 27, 2008
Enter: the Spebector, part II
Before you read this, read the post below this, Enter: the Spebector, part I.
I didn't hear the phone ring. It did it's job, put up a loud fight for the attention it deserved, but it just wasn't enough to be heard over the constant ringing in my head. The kind of ringing that builds up after a lifetime of taking shots. From a gun or from a dame, it doesn't matter, they're both loud, and they hurt equally. When it's a dame with a gun, that's when you gotta watch out. All those years, and the only shot I really need is the bourbon kind. The only kind I'm not allowed to have, says my parole officer. It could have taken the edge off, chased away the ringing, and maybe I coulda heard the phone. Then I wouldn't be in this mess. But then again, if I wasn't in a mess, then I just wouldn't be me. The Spebector.
The number was strange, but then again, numbers always are. I didn't get into this business to be a mathematician. That might beg the question, why did I get into this business. I'll beg you not to ask that. I care about two numbers: my bank account level, and my blood alcohol level. Both are always too low.
My first thought was to hit the books. The face books. I'm no gardener, but I know how to keep dirt. I've got everything on everybody, names, photos, favorite quotations. The face books are my insurance policy... nobody wants them to see the light of day, so nobody wants to see my lights put out. Call it blackmail, call it what you will. I never said I was a role model, and I'm not losing any sleep over it. This time, the books let me down. This time though, the number was unknown.
In this business, it pays to have informants. Lots of gumshoes go crazy, pay everybody to tell them everything. I don't go for that extravagance. I only got one guy, but he does the work of a thousand. A real catch by the name of G. Oogle. Don't let the mad-scientist name fool you, he's actually quite insane. When I caught up with Oogle, he had a few messages for me. He considers himself a bit of a mailman. He found some good deals on watches, he said. He can get me any pills I need, he said. He can introduce me to some ladies, he said. Legs from here to yahoo, he said. He can get me their numbers, he said. No thanks, I said. I already got a number. I need a name.
Oogle did his Oogly thing, and I waited. Left alone with my thoughts, I thought. I'm not a fan of my thoughts. It's all ringing and buzzing and half empty bottles, except when there's a dame mixed in. And there's always a dame mixed in. I shook it all out and focused. The case was important. The call came at 2:14, a time when all the good people of the world are hard at work earning their meal tickets. The only folks with time to make a call are crooks and jazz musicians. I don't give two snips for either.
Oogle came back with what I needed, and something I didn't need. The number was from Pennsylvania. Pittsburgh. All I know from Pittsburgh are stealers and pirates, really my kinda people. What else you got, Oogle. He said nothing, just handed me a business card. Reverse Detective, it said, and a list of prices and payment options. Just what I need, I thought, more numbers.
I didn't become the Spebector just to rely on some two-bit sherlock operation to find every Pittsburgh Pete I come across. I do things on my own. 'used by real-life detectives and professional private investigators around the country' the card said. I don't know what kind of dreamer wrote that, but here in real-life, gumshoes don't pay other gumshoes to solve the cases for them. A gumshoe does that and he's got no money left for himself. Spebecting don't pay what it used to.
It looks like its up to me to do the digging this time, but believe me I'm going to reach the bottom of this one. I'm packing my bags for Pittsburgh, parole be damned. I just hope they serve bourbon on the flight.
I didn't hear the phone ring. It did it's job, put up a loud fight for the attention it deserved, but it just wasn't enough to be heard over the constant ringing in my head. The kind of ringing that builds up after a lifetime of taking shots. From a gun or from a dame, it doesn't matter, they're both loud, and they hurt equally. When it's a dame with a gun, that's when you gotta watch out. All those years, and the only shot I really need is the bourbon kind. The only kind I'm not allowed to have, says my parole officer. It could have taken the edge off, chased away the ringing, and maybe I coulda heard the phone. Then I wouldn't be in this mess. But then again, if I wasn't in a mess, then I just wouldn't be me. The Spebector.
The number was strange, but then again, numbers always are. I didn't get into this business to be a mathematician. That might beg the question, why did I get into this business. I'll beg you not to ask that. I care about two numbers: my bank account level, and my blood alcohol level. Both are always too low.
My first thought was to hit the books. The face books. I'm no gardener, but I know how to keep dirt. I've got everything on everybody, names, photos, favorite quotations. The face books are my insurance policy... nobody wants them to see the light of day, so nobody wants to see my lights put out. Call it blackmail, call it what you will. I never said I was a role model, and I'm not losing any sleep over it. This time, the books let me down. This time though, the number was unknown.
In this business, it pays to have informants. Lots of gumshoes go crazy, pay everybody to tell them everything. I don't go for that extravagance. I only got one guy, but he does the work of a thousand. A real catch by the name of G. Oogle. Don't let the mad-scientist name fool you, he's actually quite insane. When I caught up with Oogle, he had a few messages for me. He considers himself a bit of a mailman. He found some good deals on watches, he said. He can get me any pills I need, he said. He can introduce me to some ladies, he said. Legs from here to yahoo, he said. He can get me their numbers, he said. No thanks, I said. I already got a number. I need a name.
Oogle did his Oogly thing, and I waited. Left alone with my thoughts, I thought. I'm not a fan of my thoughts. It's all ringing and buzzing and half empty bottles, except when there's a dame mixed in. And there's always a dame mixed in. I shook it all out and focused. The case was important. The call came at 2:14, a time when all the good people of the world are hard at work earning their meal tickets. The only folks with time to make a call are crooks and jazz musicians. I don't give two snips for either.
Oogle came back with what I needed, and something I didn't need. The number was from Pennsylvania. Pittsburgh. All I know from Pittsburgh are stealers and pirates, really my kinda people. What else you got, Oogle. He said nothing, just handed me a business card. Reverse Detective, it said, and a list of prices and payment options. Just what I need, I thought, more numbers.
I didn't become the Spebector just to rely on some two-bit sherlock operation to find every Pittsburgh Pete I come across. I do things on my own. 'used by real-life detectives and professional private investigators around the country' the card said. I don't know what kind of dreamer wrote that, but here in real-life, gumshoes don't pay other gumshoes to solve the cases for them. A gumshoe does that and he's got no money left for himself. Spebecting don't pay what it used to.
It looks like its up to me to do the digging this time, but believe me I'm going to reach the bottom of this one. I'm packing my bags for Pittsburgh, parole be damned. I just hope they serve bourbon on the flight.
Enter: the Spebector, part I
Oh boy, another story from my childhood!
Like many children, I used to play detective when I was a little kiddo. I would put on a hat, grab a magnifying glass, and pester my parents until they would give me a household mystery to solve. I was the great Spebector (my interpretation of the word 'inspector' I suppose). I would often receive assistance from my sidekick, Chex (ably played by my sister Thea). It was a lot of fun, and I considered becoming some sort of detective/private investigator/Dick Tracy when I grew up. Well, I'm technically a grown up now, and alas, I am still not a detective. Or a private investigator. Or Dick Tracy. Or so I thought, until this afternoon.
Today, at exactly 2:14 pm, while I was watching Remember the Titans on TV because I don't have a day job, a mysterious culprit dialed my cellular telephone. I was too swept up in the triumphant spirit of the movie to hear my phone ringing, so I missed the call. When I finally checked my phone, I didn't recognize the number. I didn't even recognize the area code. I had a case on my hands.
Enter: the Spebector.
Like many children, I used to play detective when I was a little kiddo. I would put on a hat, grab a magnifying glass, and pester my parents until they would give me a household mystery to solve. I was the great Spebector (my interpretation of the word 'inspector' I suppose). I would often receive assistance from my sidekick, Chex (ably played by my sister Thea). It was a lot of fun, and I considered becoming some sort of detective/private investigator/Dick Tracy when I grew up. Well, I'm technically a grown up now, and alas, I am still not a detective. Or a private investigator. Or Dick Tracy. Or so I thought, until this afternoon.
Today, at exactly 2:14 pm, while I was watching Remember the Titans on TV because I don't have a day job, a mysterious culprit dialed my cellular telephone. I was too swept up in the triumphant spirit of the movie to hear my phone ringing, so I missed the call. When I finally checked my phone, I didn't recognize the number. I didn't even recognize the area code. I had a case on my hands.
Enter: the Spebector.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
On having a cool sister
As I have already remarked several times, it was my birthday last week. My awesome sister is very crafty, and she crafted me a crafty craft to commemorate the occasion! It's a really sweet blog-themed sampler:
I will proudly pass this on to my great-grandchildren.
Intricate!
I will proudly pass this on to my great-grandchildren.
Intricate!Thank you Thea! I love it and will treasure it and will cradle it at night like a newborn kitten!
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
On being young (well, younger)
Last night, at my cooking class (yeah, I'm in a cooking class, what's your point), a guy asked my friend Brooks and I if we were in high school.
As I noted only a scant few days ago, I am now twenty three years of age and five months out of college. Brooks is several months older than me. It is no longer amusing to be mistaken for teenagers.
It would be bad enough if this was an isolated incident, but it was in fact the second time in the past year that Brooks and I have been asked if we were high schoolers. The first time was by a very intoxicated girl, so it was easy to brush off. Nonetheless, I was very righteously offended. Perhaps the most offended I had ever been.
This time it was not just a random sloppy drunk. It was a sober dude, asking with a straight face if we were in high school. Not as easy to brush off. Strangely, I was not as righteously offended. I was simply flabbergasted. It honestly struck me dumb.
It's the next day, and I still don't know what to make of it. I can't even think of any snide jokes to make. I apparently have the appearance and personality of a high schooler. This is very distressing, especially because the only real solution to make myself look older is to once again grow a ghastly mustache. But if that is what it takes, then that is what I shall do.
As I noted only a scant few days ago, I am now twenty three years of age and five months out of college. Brooks is several months older than me. It is no longer amusing to be mistaken for teenagers.
It would be bad enough if this was an isolated incident, but it was in fact the second time in the past year that Brooks and I have been asked if we were high schoolers. The first time was by a very intoxicated girl, so it was easy to brush off. Nonetheless, I was very righteously offended. Perhaps the most offended I had ever been.
This time it was not just a random sloppy drunk. It was a sober dude, asking with a straight face if we were in high school. Not as easy to brush off. Strangely, I was not as righteously offended. I was simply flabbergasted. It honestly struck me dumb.
It's the next day, and I still don't know what to make of it. I can't even think of any snide jokes to make. I apparently have the appearance and personality of a high schooler. This is very distressing, especially because the only real solution to make myself look older is to once again grow a ghastly mustache. But if that is what it takes, then that is what I shall do.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
An open letter to the people on my block who continue to set off extremely loud fireworks every few hours for no discernible reason
Dear neighbors,
Please stop.
Sincerely,
Ian
Please stop.
Sincerely,
Ian
Thursday, October 16, 2008
On being old (well, older)
So yesterday was the twenty third anniversary of my glorious birth. I was going to write a whole entry about how useless it is to turn 23, and how birthdays aren't fun after the age of 21 because instead of being one year closer to drinking it's just one year closer to death, and how there is nothing that one can do at age 23 that one couldn't do at age 22. But nobody, not even the kind of person that would stoop themselves to reading my blog, wants to read that sort of half-hearted ennui. And besides, I realized that there are oodles of great things I can only do now that I am 23:
- Feel superior to twenty-two-year-olds
- Feel superior to twenty two-year-olds
- Feel superior to twenty-two year-olds
- Ummmm...
Monday, October 13, 2008
On a brief sojourn in high society
Last Friday, I had the privilege of attending a charity wine tasting with my magnanimous and munificent and altruistic friend Andrea. In case you are too stupid to understand those basic, everyday words, I'm trying to say that she gave me a free ticket. Thanks Andrea!
It was a delightful evening, and a wonderful opportunity to mingle with our social betters. We sampled a few of the finer vintages, and had many enlightening conversations with the Twin Cities elite.
Oh who am I kidding, we chugged wine in the corner and gawked at all the stupid rich people.
I felt extremely out of place the entire time, partly because we were by far the youngest people there. Actually there might have been a few girls who were younger than me, but based on their dress and the company they were keeping I was pretty sure that they were, ahem, "professional escorts." I also felt out of place because I don't understand rich people at all.
In addition to the bottomless glasses of wine and the weird fried spaghetti balls that were served, the event featured a silent auction. People were bidding thousands of dollars on luxury vacations, spa treatments, wine accessories, and other weird rich-person crap. It was almost enough to make you forget that the economy is in the dumpster right now. At least it would have been if I didn't make it a point to remind people. I may or may not have loudly exclaimed that the bailout money was paying for my flippant bidding.
Yeah, that's right, I bid on something. A really badass (read: ugly) pair of Dos Equis Beer cuff links that I was extremely disappointed to have won. They were valued at like $60 or something, and the highest bid was $15. I put in a courtesy bid of $20, thinking that I would quickly be outbid. Apparently I overestimated the desireability of Dos Equis cuff links, because nobody wanted to top me. I really didn't want to spend $20 on cuff links, especially on hideous Dos Equis ones, but I guess I might as well enjoy them. Now I just need to buy a shirt that has cuffs.
Wearing my suit, praying that someone would outbid me
A google image search for 'dos equis cufflinks' found this. I don't know what the hell.
It was a delightful evening, and a wonderful opportunity to mingle with our social betters. We sampled a few of the finer vintages, and had many enlightening conversations with the Twin Cities elite.
Oh who am I kidding, we chugged wine in the corner and gawked at all the stupid rich people.
I felt extremely out of place the entire time, partly because we were by far the youngest people there. Actually there might have been a few girls who were younger than me, but based on their dress and the company they were keeping I was pretty sure that they were, ahem, "professional escorts." I also felt out of place because I don't understand rich people at all.
In addition to the bottomless glasses of wine and the weird fried spaghetti balls that were served, the event featured a silent auction. People were bidding thousands of dollars on luxury vacations, spa treatments, wine accessories, and other weird rich-person crap. It was almost enough to make you forget that the economy is in the dumpster right now. At least it would have been if I didn't make it a point to remind people. I may or may not have loudly exclaimed that the bailout money was paying for my flippant bidding.
Yeah, that's right, I bid on something. A really badass (read: ugly) pair of Dos Equis Beer cuff links that I was extremely disappointed to have won. They were valued at like $60 or something, and the highest bid was $15. I put in a courtesy bid of $20, thinking that I would quickly be outbid. Apparently I overestimated the desireability of Dos Equis cuff links, because nobody wanted to top me. I really didn't want to spend $20 on cuff links, especially on hideous Dos Equis ones, but I guess I might as well enjoy them. Now I just need to buy a shirt that has cuffs.
Wearing my suit, praying that someone would outbid meA google image search for 'dos equis cufflinks' found this. I don't know what the hell.Thursday, October 9, 2008
On nerdy disclosures, poor literature, and ninjas
First of all, an admission: I like Star Trek. But wait, before you close your browser in disgust and/or remove me from your list of facebook friends and forget you ever knew me, understand that it is not by choice. I was born into a Star Trek loving family, and I grew up thinking that it was the best show on television.
You are probably thinking to yourself right now "Well that's pretty lame, he likes a geeky TV show. But at least he's not a total nerd... he's probably never gone to any Star Trek conventions or anything." Well I hate to break it to you, but I have. When I was about 9 years old. I went with my family. We had a lot of fun. Okay, now you can close your browser and pretend you never knew me. It's okay, I understand. But for those of you who are still reading, I can speak freely about the topic that is on my mind: Star Trek books.
You see my friends, not only did I watch the TV shows (The Next Generation and Deep Space Nine were the best), play with the action figures (I had a really sweet Borg one that fired a laser-missile-thing), and play the videogames (I never got past the second level), but I also read the books. Most of which I simply inherited from my sister, who was an even bigger fan than I was.
While it may have been outstanding when I was 11, it is almost impossible to read as a 22 year old. It's really bad. I mean really, really bad. The sentences are poorly constructed and awkwardly phrased, the dialogue is melodramatic and overly expository, and the characters are crude imitations of their television counterparts. Thematically, it's a mess... a jumbled mélange of coming of age issues, international diplomacy, and the folly of becoming dependent on technology. None of this was very surprising of course (it is a Star Trek book after all, my expectations were pretty low), but one thing did surprise me. I will get to that in a moment.
I haven't finished it yet, but so far the plot involves the worst character in the history of television, Wesley Crusher, along with the badass characters Captain Picard and Data becoming trapped in a Holodeck simulation and fighting some imaginary aliens. As they are running around this simulated world, avoiding the aliens and trying to find a way out, they are suddenly attacked by ninjas. Seriously, ninjas. Ninjas. This is supposed to be like 500 years in the future, in a society that has integrated cultural elements from countless alien civilizations, in a computer simulation where literally anything can happen, and the best thing that author Mel Gilden can come up with is Ninjas.
The decision to include ninjas in a science fiction book shows a remarkable lack of creativity, but what is even more confounding is that in Mel's vision of the future, people apparently still know what ninjas are: "...in a moment a man was bending over him with his hands around Picard's throat. Ninja, Picard thought with the calm part of his mind." This is a man who flies through space encountering bizarre aliens and unfamiliar situations. He is attacked suddenly from behind, and he somehow recognizes instantly that it is a 15th century Japanese warrior? Come on. People in the future are not going to be intimately familiar with every obscure relic from human history.
Also in Mel's vision of the future, ninjas are so lame that a complete wiener like Wesley Crusher is able to beat them up: "...Wesley was poking his ninja in the face with the outstretched fingers of one hand while he punched with the other." What the hell? How does that even work? How do you poke and punch at the same time? Especially when you are a sheltered dweeb with absolutely no fighting experience because you live on a spaceship in a utopian society?
I don't really know what happens after they fight the ninjas, because I was so furious with the sheer laziness of Mel Gilden's writing that I literally threw the book across the room. I don't plan on finishing it, or reading any of the other terrible books I enjoyed as a child. I have come to the conclusion that I was an idiot when I was younger. You probably came to the very same conclusion about 7 paragraphs ago when I admitted to going to a Star Trek convention.
You are probably thinking to yourself right now "Well that's pretty lame, he likes a geeky TV show. But at least he's not a total nerd... he's probably never gone to any Star Trek conventions or anything." Well I hate to break it to you, but I have. When I was about 9 years old. I went with my family. We had a lot of fun. Okay, now you can close your browser and pretend you never knew me. It's okay, I understand. But for those of you who are still reading, I can speak freely about the topic that is on my mind: Star Trek books.
You see my friends, not only did I watch the TV shows (The Next Generation and Deep Space Nine were the best), play with the action figures (I had a really sweet Borg one that fired a laser-missile-thing), and play the videogames (I never got past the second level), but I also read the books. Most of which I simply inherited from my sister, who was an even bigger fan than I was.
The other day I discovered an old Star Trek book that I remembered being my favorite. It was evocatively titled Boogeymen, and I believe I first read it when I was 11 or 12, but I definitely thought it was well written and cleverly plotted. I had entiretly forgotten what it was about or why I liked it so much, so I have spent the past few nights attempting to reread it.
I haven't finished it yet, but so far the plot involves the worst character in the history of television, Wesley Crusher, along with the badass characters Captain Picard and Data becoming trapped in a Holodeck simulation and fighting some imaginary aliens. As they are running around this simulated world, avoiding the aliens and trying to find a way out, they are suddenly attacked by ninjas. Seriously, ninjas. Ninjas. This is supposed to be like 500 years in the future, in a society that has integrated cultural elements from countless alien civilizations, in a computer simulation where literally anything can happen, and the best thing that author Mel Gilden can come up with is Ninjas.
The decision to include ninjas in a science fiction book shows a remarkable lack of creativity, but what is even more confounding is that in Mel's vision of the future, people apparently still know what ninjas are: "...in a moment a man was bending over him with his hands around Picard's throat. Ninja, Picard thought with the calm part of his mind." This is a man who flies through space encountering bizarre aliens and unfamiliar situations. He is attacked suddenly from behind, and he somehow recognizes instantly that it is a 15th century Japanese warrior? Come on. People in the future are not going to be intimately familiar with every obscure relic from human history.
Also in Mel's vision of the future, ninjas are so lame that a complete wiener like Wesley Crusher is able to beat them up: "...Wesley was poking his ninja in the face with the outstretched fingers of one hand while he punched with the other." What the hell? How does that even work? How do you poke and punch at the same time? Especially when you are a sheltered dweeb with absolutely no fighting experience because you live on a spaceship in a utopian society?
I don't really know what happens after they fight the ninjas, because I was so furious with the sheer laziness of Mel Gilden's writing that I literally threw the book across the room. I don't plan on finishing it, or reading any of the other terrible books I enjoyed as a child. I have come to the conclusion that I was an idiot when I was younger. You probably came to the very same conclusion about 7 paragraphs ago when I admitted to going to a Star Trek convention.
Monday, October 6, 2008
OFFICIAL DRINKABILITY WORLD HEADQUARTERS
*EDIT FOR ALL THE WEIRDOS THAT KEEP SEARCHING FOR THIS*
The guy in the commercial is not Dave Chappelle! It's Terrell from It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia!
So lately a lot of people have been watching their televisions, seeing the ridiculous new Bud Light commercials touting its apparently exceptional 'drinkability', turning on their computers, typing 'drinkability commercial' into Google, and ending up here. Obviously that post actually has very little to do with the preposterous concept of drinkability, and it doesn't discuss the new commercials that feverish Bud Light fans are clamoring to view and review and re-review. But for some reason it's like the third Google result for 'drinkability commercial' and people just keep on a-clicking. They must be quite disappointed in the low amount of serious drinkability analysis on this site.
Well that is going to change... Due to popular demand, I am now declaring Knowledge Dropped to be the OFFICIAL BUD LIGHT DRINKABILITY WORLD HEADQUARTERS ZONE!!!
THESE PEOPLE WANT THE SMOOTH DRINKABILITY THAT CAN ONLY BE FOUND IN A TALL FROSTY BOTTLE OF BUD LIGHT
CODE BLUE CODE BLUE COORS DOES NOT HAVE DRINKABILITY
NO DRINKABILITY? NOW THAT'S LIVING THE LOW LIFE
THE OFFICIAL OTTER OF DRINKABILITY
YES PLEASE
The guy in the commercial is not Dave Chappelle! It's Terrell from It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia!
So lately a lot of people have been watching their televisions, seeing the ridiculous new Bud Light commercials touting its apparently exceptional 'drinkability', turning on their computers, typing 'drinkability commercial' into Google, and ending up here. Obviously that post actually has very little to do with the preposterous concept of drinkability, and it doesn't discuss the new commercials that feverish Bud Light fans are clamoring to view and review and re-review. But for some reason it's like the third Google result for 'drinkability commercial' and people just keep on a-clicking. They must be quite disappointed in the low amount of serious drinkability analysis on this site.
Well that is going to change... Due to popular demand, I am now declaring Knowledge Dropped to be the OFFICIAL BUD LIGHT DRINKABILITY WORLD HEADQUARTERS ZONE!!!
DRINKABILITY IS THE MOST IMPORTANT QUALITY IN A BEER
WITHOUT DRINKABILITY BEER SERVES NO FUNCTION
IF A BEER DOESN'T HAVE AN EXTREME LEVEL OF DRINKABILITY IT MIGHT AS WELL BE A BOTTLE OF POISON
THE COMMERCIALS FOR BUD LIGHT'S HIGH DRINKABILITY QUOTIENT ARE FUNNY AND ALSO HILARIOUSLY COMICAL
WITHOUT DRINKABILITY BEER SERVES NO FUNCTION
IF A BEER DOESN'T HAVE AN EXTREME LEVEL OF DRINKABILITY IT MIGHT AS WELL BE A BOTTLE OF POISON
THE COMMERCIALS FOR BUD LIGHT'S HIGH DRINKABILITY QUOTIENT ARE FUNNY AND ALSO HILARIOUSLY COMICAL
THESE PEOPLE WANT THE SMOOTH DRINKABILITY THAT CAN ONLY BE FOUND IN A TALL FROSTY BOTTLE OF BUD LIGHT
CODE BLUE CODE BLUE COORS DOES NOT HAVE DRINKABILITY
NO DRINKABILITY? NOW THAT'S LIVING THE LOW LIFE
THE OFFICIAL OTTER OF DRINKABILITY
YES PLEASEI'M GOING TO THE STORE NOW TO GET A 24 PACK OF BUD LIGHT BUT BE SURE TO CHECK BACK FOR MORE DISCUSSION OF DRINKABILITY AND A COMPLETE BREAKDOWN OF THE SCINTILLATING DRINKABILITY COMMERCIALS
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo
Buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
On having a weird new hobby
I haven't posted in a while, and for that I apologize. I know there are many people sitting on pins and needles waiting for my next volley of wisdom. Or as my blog is so aptly named, for me to Drop some Knowledge.
The truth is that I have been away on business, and it has not been going well. But I am finally back, and ready to execute the hostages! Er, I mean, to post things on my blog!
So when I was a young lad, I was slightly obsessed with finding money. My dream was to someday find a whole lot of money and then I would truly be happy, or something. I was really weird about money when I was little. But anyways, I was really good at finding it. Wherever I would go, my eyes would automatically scan the cracks in the sidewalk, the space underneath the shelves in the grocery store, random glints of metal from patches of grass, everywhere. I had a whole jar filled with pennies and nickels and dimes and quarters(!) that I had found. My parents thought I was anti-social because I walked everywhere with my head down, but the truth was that I was just really greedy. Thankfully my obsession waned as I grew older, and I stopped crawling under vending machines looking for dropped change. Nowadays, I don't even stop to pick up pennies when they are right in front of me. Oh who am I kidding, yes I do.
Anyways, I have always enjoyed finding things. Now instead of money, I just look for interesting things. A few days ago I was inspired by Found Magazine, and I have subsequently embarked upon a quest to find any discarded/lost notes or papers or letters or other such treasures.
So thanks to an old scanner that I found in my house and coaxed back to life, here are two things I recently found:
I found this while walking by the Potomac River in Washington D.C.
I hope whoever dropped it was able to ace his/her test.
I found this today at the St. Paul River Center after a conference.
Someone apparently wasn't paying attention to the speaker.
The truth is that I have been away on business, and it has not been going well. But I am finally back, and ready to execute the hostages! Er, I mean, to post things on my blog!
So when I was a young lad, I was slightly obsessed with finding money. My dream was to someday find a whole lot of money and then I would truly be happy, or something. I was really weird about money when I was little. But anyways, I was really good at finding it. Wherever I would go, my eyes would automatically scan the cracks in the sidewalk, the space underneath the shelves in the grocery store, random glints of metal from patches of grass, everywhere. I had a whole jar filled with pennies and nickels and dimes and quarters(!) that I had found. My parents thought I was anti-social because I walked everywhere with my head down, but the truth was that I was just really greedy. Thankfully my obsession waned as I grew older, and I stopped crawling under vending machines looking for dropped change. Nowadays, I don't even stop to pick up pennies when they are right in front of me. Oh who am I kidding, yes I do.
Anyways, I have always enjoyed finding things. Now instead of money, I just look for interesting things. A few days ago I was inspired by Found Magazine, and I have subsequently embarked upon a quest to find any discarded/lost notes or papers or letters or other such treasures.
So thanks to an old scanner that I found in my house and coaxed back to life, here are two things I recently found:
I found this while walking by the Potomac River in Washington D.C.I hope whoever dropped it was able to ace his/her test.
I found this today at the St. Paul River Center after a conference.Someone apparently wasn't paying attention to the speaker.
I wish I had found more interesting things, but I have only been on the lookout for a few days now. I'm sure I will have more on this subject later. Maybe someday I will scan all of the pennies I found when I was younger (yes, I still have the jar).
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