Category: Matt

  • The Lunatics Have Taken Over The Asylum

    The Lunatics Have Taken Over The Asylum

    I love everything about TV.

     

    The great educator.

     

    We have the power to put absolutely anyone on TV and have them argue inane political points.  What does the actor who plays Doctor Oz have to say about the mortgage crisis?  What does the actress who plays Nancy Grace, an over caffeinated member of the PTA, have to say about a trial in Florida?  We line up the wackos, shove them in front of a camera, and let the public decide if they like what’s said.  We, the audience, pick our allegiances as if we were picking sports teams to root for.

     

    What nutjob really identifies me as a person?

     

    Over 8 million people choose the cranky, argumentative old man at the back of the church — playing the role of Bill O’Reilly — to capture the hearts of viewers everywhere.

     

    Several million others choose the crazy bird man behind Circle K — in the role of Glenn Beck — to inform them of the ever-changing state of reality.

     

    The problem is, these award-winning performers are being cast against type.  They’re arguing about serious, life-or-death issues.  They’re chimpanzees debating the moralistic cost of the post-industrial revolution.  They’re arguing about the Debt Ceiling.  They’re trying to convert you Steelers fans to Ravens fans.  No one’s going to switch sides, here.  When’s the last time you argued someone out of being a democrat/republican/conspiracy-theorist?

     

    “Just cut public welfare spending and no one gets hurt!”

     

    They try so hard.  God bless them.  I love to hear these maniacs fight to stay in character, back and forth.  I especially enjoy watching their shows with judicious use of the mute button.  Here is what I’ve learned by watching the Bill O’Reilly sitcom “The Factor” and Glenn Beck’s dark episodic drama, “Glenn Beck”:

     

    a)     Superhuman intellectuals (“liberals”) are out to murder, sodomize, and rob the hard-working american public – this is probably the result of illegal drug use and stand-up comedian Al Gore.

    b)     Bill and Glenn look like a goblin and an orc, respectively.

    c)      The price of chocolate is being manipulated by a nefarious secret society, headed up by a shape-shifting creature known as George Soros who drinks the blood of hedge fund managers.

    d)     Illegal aliens in America (aka the guys who work at Burger King) are plotting to take over the American economic and judicial system.

    e)     The man in charge of America was born on the continent of Africa, and this is a very bad thing.

    f)       Devout religious zealots are plotting to murder random civilians in a quest to acquire 40 virgins – they walk among you.

     

    Not all of which are untrue!

     

    But seriously, Billy, what’s your day-to-day life like?  Do you wake up happy to be alive?  Do you look over your shoulder on the way to Starbucks?  Do you “keep an eye” on Miguel at Jack in the Box?  (I would, because if he has any sense at all, Miguel is going to spit a gigantic loogie in your Sourdough Jack)  Do you scan the television looking for demonic socialists propagating their left wing Stalin-esque agenda?

     

    Sounds exhausting.

     

    So I invite you and Glenn to come visit me in Venice Beach.  I swear, none of that shit you’re terrified of is happening here.  The only thing you have to watch out for is the crazy man near Radio Shack who smells awful as he mutters about the price of corn into a mailbox slot.

     

    I MUST SAY, GENTLEMEN, I GENERALLY DISAPPROVE OF YOUR VULGAR LANGUAGE!

     

    What really grinds my gears is the wanton cursing that goes on in these shows.  They’re using the C-word again.  The last time we got C-word crazy, millions of Vietnamese, Cambodians, Central Americans, Cubans, and North Americans died.  Hundreds of screenwriters and directors and actors were censored.  Not all of whom were C-words, most were just assholes (ex: Bay of Pigs).

     

    GOD HELP US ALL if these circus performers ever start using the t-word.  Because if the birdman and the goblin start accusing others of TERROR (definition: causing scary thoughts) then we’re really ass-backward and up against the wall.  Who knows how many will die in the process.  We’ll be OK if we don’t let the lunatics decide our next move.

     

    OSAMA IS DEAD!  It only took ________ innocent lives!  That’s _____ less than the number of innocent people Osama killed or would kill.

     

    I genuinely do not know the numbers.  I am bad at math.  I won’t even attempt to calculate an equation.  It’s way more complicated than I understand.  I’ll leave it to the more educated.  I’ll argue about what I know best, words and lunatics.

     

    The problem was never that we didn’t know things were fucked up.

     

    The problem is  that we don’t know how to unfuck things.

     

    That’s okay to not know.  There are smarter people out there.  So Bill, Glenn, Jon, Stephen, Nancy, Anderson — all you bastards — be fucking nice when you talk about other people.  Tone it down.  Watch your mouth.  We don’t know what to do about it either, and that is all right.  Take one deep breath.  Enroll in a sailing class, you never know what you like until you try it.

     

    I just don’t want anyone to get hurt.

  • Plead the Fourth

    Plead the Fourth

    I dock at the Newport Beach “Watchtower”, an old home I rarely get to visit.  It is July 4th, 2011 – 9am PST.  Apparently, I’m grossly behind schedule.

    I’m not the first one to arrive.  There are hussies everywhere, vacationing prostitutes.  Shirtless men with Viking hats playing games with ping pong balls.  Parties in every other house.  The native old people batten down their hatches as if a drunken flesh tornado were coming and staying the night — because it is.

    Premature fireworks explode and fade, the product of itchy, impatiently excited young patriots.  Sirens go off at random intervals, never very far away, reminding us all that somewhere very close, people are partying themselves into physical distress. An alarm clock message to all of us:  Step up your game, citizen!

    For big events, my friends and I like to call on a spirit animal.  A spirit animal may take many forms depending on the event at hand.  At Coachella 2010, I was white fox / lone wolf.  At Coachella 2011, I was the laughing owl (Watson was an alligator).  Today, Bill Hicks is my spirit animal.

    Watson and I center ourselves and hold a brief huddle on the roof.

    Our Meeting’s Digest:  What is America?  An ideal.  A promise to strive for progression.  A more perfect union, which lets go of the constrictive, antiquated past.  America is an idea not bound to worshiping what was. It has been about worshiping what could be — the unwritten future.  Which is why America finds itself in a constant battle to auto-correct itself like some super iPhone versus a monkey with amateur opposable thumbs.  Three hundred years of cold ideological civil war.  The product?  Newport Beach Peninsula on the fourth of July.

    There’s plenty more to do.  We can’t do it alone.  That’s what Bill Hicks is for.  He can be our Jesus (fall guy + savior).

    “Yes, we are wearing torn gym shirts with a man’s face plastered on them.  Yes, we are disheveled.  We’re aware that people everywhere are dancing, screaming, and painting their faces like savages, and yes, that is fun.  But we’re just a couple of bored old souls up here drinking cheap beer with our chest hair out.  Talking about time travel.  We may spin some Radiohead later.  Really, this is what we do.  This is what we’re all about.  Take a seat.  Let me tell you about Hicksianity.”

    Perhaps that’s laying it on a little thick.  Everyone relax.  Stay calm.  Nothing to see.  Just one pixel of Americana, here.  One splotch in the national Rorschach.  Move along.

    We bathe in the sweat humidity and observe our surroundings.  We overhear one conversation, over and over, from a different person each time:

    “Wait… Hello?  Where are you?  Who are you with?  I’m at the sand and… Wait, who are you with?  Is Justin there?  Tell Justin… Where are you guys?  Come to the beach.  Is this Justin?  Hello?  Can you hear me?  I’m on forty… something.  Come to the beach!”

    Amateurs.

    Watson and I attempt to deprogram the brainwashed masses:

    “Relinquish your illusions of control!  Extract yourself from the idealistic microcosm you have fashioned!  Join the Megaplex of national pride.  No segregation!  Things like this are happening all over the country.  You are a speck in the melting pot.  Congeal!  Congeal!”

    Very little gets through.

    We move to the beach.  What looks to be a mushroom cloud lurks in the distance.  Could be an imitator cumulonimbus.  Can’t say for sure.  50-50. Tie goes to the good weather.  The party must go on.

    The memory movies are strong today.  Summer camp, I came to this beach.  High school, I came here cutting class to “surf”.  College?  I lived here, right in the heart of darkness, and I mimicked my surroundings.  And now… I’m only an observer.  Flashbacks left and right.  A visitor from the future.  When I was young, where was this me?  Where is the me who will return again, older and wiser?

    I keep whipping my neck over my shoulder, looking for a T-1000 or a stalking Jesus. Nothing there except busty 18 year olds.  A miraculous relief.

    The Nose radios in from close by.  He’s en route.  We are about to multiply.  The Nose’s special abilities are strong, and very handy.  He’s a master of sniffing things out and picking up scents.  He’s the first to know about everything.  Tip:  Whenever you’re anywhere, listen to whatever The Nose says.

    The Nose joins our team and immediately begins to replace words with “Raug”.  Sentences are being vivisected left and right by his subversive nonsense.  People continue to act as if they understand.

    The Nose:  “Raug Raug, want to hit the Raug and then Raug?”

    Strange Local:  “Raug!”

    Parrot see, Parrot do.  Put an infinite amount of parrots next to an infinite number of drinks and eventually, you get Shakespeare.  Then satire becomes mainstream, and before long, The Nose informs me that “Raug” is very out.

    Ideals: you last a lifetime.  But Words: you are as impermanent as my music taste.

    House to house, each party is blaring horrendous watered-down dubstep and heavy house.  Each year, the music changes like the tide.  A live-action car crash re-enactment of the awful trends we’re subjected to, care of Democracy.  It dawns on me that watching and listening to music genres as they form/evolve/torture/die in the Tweens of the 2000s is like watching stars supernova in slow motion.  Mini big bangs on fast forward.  Fireworks in the sky, smoke skeleton tracers.  Over and over, we all re-visit ourselves.  Embarrassments and all.

    And I’m in love with that.  Swollen with true pride for our goop of mistakes yet-to-be auto-corrected.  These are the cracks in the pavement which will be smoothed over, gussied up by The Editor of some ignoramus history book.  These scenes will be deleted by memory and overlooked by newspapers.  These fractures are ours, and no one else’s.  Until they are erased, I pledge allegiance…

     

    The above is an excerpt from The Psychosis Agent’s Field Reports – an episodic series about a young man driven completely insane by television.  His bubble gum stories, which are psychotic quests for meaning in banal occurrences, have been published in several issues of Banana Journal.

  • Lupus and the Greedy Jesus

    Lupus and the Greedy Jesus

    Lupus and the Greedy Jesus

    (A One-Act Tragedy Play for a Modern Recession and a Poor Faith Economy)

    by

    Matt Zbrog

    CURTAIN:

    It was the opposite of a dark and stormy night.  The Wells Fargo branch was quietly going about its business… Marshall the bank teller was standing at his post with hopeless ennui… Matt was on the far end of the bank, an air conditioning vent running softly through his gorgeous hair…

     

    ENTER ANNE, a gigantic potato sack of an old lady… she speaks with the loud authority of a Martin Luther King, Jr., and with the righteous indignation of a fox news lunatic…

     

    Anne:  YALL NEVER GONNA BELIEVE

    WHAT HAPPENED TO ME

     

    Anne stumbles towards Marshall… her walk looks like a water balloon tumbling lazily across smooth tile… She has a smile on her face as wide as a watermelon slice… And she launches into her Shakespearean sonnet where syllables and pace are missing but only because she is eloquent enough not to need them…

     

    Anne:  I GOT THE LUPUS

    GOT MY OLD CROCK-ED HIP

    EVERY STEP FEELS LIKE I’M FALLIN

    BUT YALL KNOW ME

    THAT AIN’T THE WORST OF IT

     

    Her fat melting tootsie roll fingers slap the papers on Marshall’s desk…

     

    Anne:  I’M HERE TO DISPUTE THESE CHARGES!

     

    Marshall studies the pages with absolute blasé.  He confronts the reality of his day to day job in terms of the big picture and blah blah blah blah bank stuff blah blah… back to Anne…

     

    Anne:  I WROTE A 20 DOLLAR CHECK

    AND YALL BOUNCED IT

     

    Anne waves a twenty dollar bill in the air like a white flag from a foxhole…

     

    Anne:  BUT I GOT THE MONEY

    RIGHT HERE

     

    Marshall shrugs his shoulders and says something stupid about that not mattering and he feels like blah blah blah dude you work in a bank no one cares blah blah blah.  Anne continues…

     

    Anne:  I WROTE THAT CHECK

    FOR TURTLE ROCK BAPTIST CHURCH

    YEAH

    THAT’S RIGHT YOU SON OF A BITCH

    I WROTE THAT CHECK TO JESUS.

     

    Silence.  Then, on cue, from far away, Matt speaks up…

     

    Matt (softly):  Woah!

     

    Anne does not hear this.  She continues…

     

    Anne:  YOU SEE NOW?

    JESUS WANTS HIS CUT

    OK

    OK

    ALL PIMPS GET ‘THEY’ SLICE

    BUT

    NOW JESUS WANTS TO CHARGE ME FEES?

    NOW JESUS WANTS PROOF I GOT HIS CASH?

    SOMEONE BETTER TELL JESUS

    TO GIVE THAT SHIT A REST

     

    In the distance, Matt hangs on every word, hands clasped as in prayer… Marshall’s reaction is worthless and disrespectful…  Anne has exhausted her obese body with all this emotional rage… She fans her moist, gelatinous skin with her clammy hand…

     

    Anne :   I MEAN

    LOOK AT ALL WELLS FARGO GOT!

    LOOK AT ALL THAT CRACKER MESSIAH GOT!

    WHAT DO I GOT?

    I GOT A BOUNCED CHECK

    AND THE GOD-DAMN LUPUS.

     

    … Anne pauses for a breath into her fat, fat, grocery bag lungs…  musters every  joule of energy… And then yells out her Faith Eulogy, confronting her upbringing, her creator, her destiny, her reality (!!!) …

     

    Anne:  THIRTY DOLLAR FEE ON A TWENTY DOLLAR CHECK?

    WELLS FARGO AND THAT GREEDY JESUS

    CAN GO STRAIGHT TO HELL.

     

    Silence, it has a sound.


    The bank-turned-congregation tries to process the miracle just performed, but their tiny bank-minds are grappling with implications far beyond their bank-depth.  Marshall begins to sob… few are concerned…


    Matt:  HALLELUJAH!

     

    FIN.

  • The Greatest Drinking Game of All Time

    The Greatest Drinking Game of All Time

    Disclaimer: My friends and I know The Greatest Drinking Game of All Time.  If played correctly and passionately, it has the power to change the world.  If played incorrectly, it can end friendships and land someone in the hospital.  I understand the bolditude of such claims out of context.  So here’s some context.

    Random Plug: If you would like to see the uncut, extended version of this story performed live, please check here and it might work out.

    My favorite holiday is Halloween.  There are a lot of reasons why.  One reason is that it’s the only mainstream Pagan ritual which has not been claimed by Christianity.   Easter and Christmas rolled over like France and Poland.  But something about Halloween has kept it from conversion…

    So with that in mind, on 10/31/2010, Doc and I arrived at Chef’s house just inside San Diego territory.  From his 10th floor apartment, I could see a huge life insurance to our right and a massive Mormon cathedral to our left.  We were deep inside enemy territory.

    But we were in disguise.  Kind of.  Doc was dressed as A Creepy Abstraction of Recurrent Mischief, aka The Cat in the Hat.  I was dressed as the narrator from Fight Club.  If you know either of us, then you understand that neither of our costumes were much of a stretch.

    Best costume award went to Chef, however.

    The 364 other days of the year, Chef would be an excellent candidate for President of the United States.  He has always been diplomatic, to put it one way.  He carries a certain respectability and class in public situations, as if he truly took to heart the parental advice of when you go out in public, you represent your family, your country, and your faith. His maturity and intelligence would be exhausting if not for the fact that his friends and loved ones know that deep down inside of Chef lies a hilarious, reckless, possibly-racist 12 year old pulling a few levers.

    And on this Hallowed night, the inside was the outside.

    Chef was dressed as “Green Man”, an all-encompassing body suit of green which shrinkwrap-hid all his features… gave him the ability to chroma-key into any situation… a codpiece was inserted in order to exacerbate his pelvic region.  Every five minutes or so, Green Man would pour a shot of whiskey over his green veil, slurp up whatever dribbled through, and then scream something horrifically racist or obscene… but he would always add, at the end, an intelligent and bold declaration of justification:

    “ANONYMITY!”

    Yes, all of our core ideals were on display that night, underlined and bolded in 28 point font.  We were hoisting our insanities and ideals high above our heads, waving our dirty underwear as humongous flags.  We did this because it’s the one holiday where it’s acceptable.  We did this because we were drinking whiskey and wearing costumes.

    All three of us were vibing very well.

    I decided to spruce up my costume, so I went to the kitchen and tried to draw some real blood to smear on my white shirt.  Authenticity!  I picked up a steak knife from the filthy sink and started stabbing at my fingertips.  Apparently, that was not the best way to go… overall result was that my shirt looked like I’d swiped at it with a red ballpoint pen and nothing more.

    Chef came in and, immediately understanding the situation, took the knife from me and started stabbing at his green palm frantically.  He looked like a bloodhungry zombie woodpecker.  He would fling whatever liquid he harvested.  My shirt was improving, slowly.

    The Cat in the Hat stomped in yelling

    “I’LL SHOW YOU HOW TO GET BLOOD!”

    And ripped the knife away from Green Man.  Doc put his left hand (paw?) face up on the counter and then slam dunk stabbed the knife down with his right hand.  He held up the wound and squeezed it till it sprayed like a poked water balloon all over my now-Jackson-Pollack blood-splattered shirt.

    We all stared at my shirt in satisfaction and then shook hands.

    It dawned on us we had just made a blood pact.  But there was no reason.  We all stared at each other, and then I yelled

    “SOLIDARITY!”

    And that was good enough.  The knife went right back into the sink, unrinsed.

    The poor girls who showed up just then for the pre-party were literally speechless.  Abhorred.  Frozen, staring at a bleeding Cat in the Hat, a racistly drunk Green Man, and a blood covered narrator.

    “COME ON IN, LADIES!”

    The women were dressed as the characters from some X-rated version of Alice in Wonderland.  The Queen of Hearts, Alice, and The Rabbit… all wearing lingerie.  The rabbit stepped through the door and immediately dropped a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.  She yelled out for someone to get paper towels and a broom.  I returned her request with a blank stare.  Because as that glass bottle shattered, all I could imagine was how many inhibitions were now going to exist, inhibitions which could have otherwise been neutralized, or at least delayed, for several hours.

    All I could say was,

    Who can think about a mess on the floor at a time like this?

    Unfortunately, The Cat in the Hat was really starting to bleed all over himself as a result of his severe stab wound.  To fix the situation, Chef handed him a Dracula cape.  Once The Cat tied the cape around his neck… we all saw the perfection.  He had transformed into a bloodhungry Childhood Memory…

    The Queen of Hearts stupidly interrupted and asked why we didn’t wrap the wound with the cape:

    “WHAT’S THAT GONNA DO?”

    So I tried to explain.

    We must work with our mess, not clean it up!  We refuse to lie to ourselves!  We do not fear or hide our flaws!  We are imperfect and proud to be!  All things are part of the grand design!

    “SOLIDARITY!”

    Chef screamed, a hallelujah chorus, his green veil dripping with whiskey.

    And one unforeseen advantage of the Dracula cape was that it gave Doc the perfect exit to any situation.  For example, about five minutes after putting on the cape, there was an awkward silence, and The Cat in the Hat said

    “I had a nightmare… Fabio died in his sleep… no one was concerned.”

    Eyes bugged out.  A dog barked somewhere.  The silence grew.  No one realized he had offered a haiku.

    So the Cat lifted one side of his cape, twirled around, and shouted

    “CAPE TWIST!”

    As he scampered out of sight… the perfect exit.

    The girls were all extremely nervous from the blood and the cape twists and the anonymity, so we broke out the hard alcohol.  They wanted to play Kings Cup.  We wanted to play our drinking game.

    Our drinking game is, I think, genius.

    Everyone has a drink of their own.  In addition, there is a shotglass and a bottle of hard alcohol in front of whoever’s turn it is.  When it’s your turn, you say a fault about yourself.  Make it good.  Then some or all of the crowd responds with either a cry of BULLSHIT or a cheer of HOORAY.  If someone calls bullshit on you, you take a shot and try another fault.  If you get a HOORAY, then others sip their drinks in your honor and you pass the bottle.

    The game always starts really tough.  People give lame faults that sound like they’re applying for a job.  I’m a perfectionist… I try to control things… I think I’m too skinny… But after a few BULLSHITS people loosen up and you really begin to see the cracks.  I’m afraid of  telling the truth about myself… I feel alone all the time even when I’m with friends but I never truly reach out to someone else… And a few more bullshits, a few more shots later, and the game really begins to spotlight some tragically human confessions.

    Reproducing those confessions here would be uncouth and go against the spirit of the game.   Some people have cried in realization or guilt.  Most people have gotten frustrated and angry.  But in the end, shot after shot, fault after fault, everyone finds some solidarity.  Everyone remembers it’s okay to admit to what you really are and okay to admit to being wrong.  Everyone feels pretty weirdgood.  It’s a beautiful game.  And everyone gets really drunk.

    The game is called “We’re All Fucked Up.”

    That night, the game went splendidly.  A few dozen faults came and went.  We were all good and liquored up… a real team with bonds thicker than blood… and we prepared to unleash ourselves upon the Pagan world.

    As we made our way down the street looking for a cab, we made a few stops.  Alice puked on the sidewalk.  The Rabbit, high as a kite on acid and whiskey, gurgled and fell into a bush.  Chef was leaned up against a random garage door, his green hand up the skirt of a smiling Queen of Hearts.  I was piggy back riding on Doc’s shoulders as he tried to run full speed through the middle of the street.  We hit a speed bump or something and collapsed in a heap of laughter and blood and costumes.

    A woman on the other side of the street barked out her window:  what the hell is wrong with all you kids?

    The Rabbit laughed:

    WE’RE ALL FUCKED UP

    Chef screamed:

    ANONYMITY

    I ripped off my bloody shirt:

    SOLIDARITY

    And as the women went to call the cops

    Doc yelled:

    CAPE TWIST

    And we twirled right on out of there.

  • Announcement: OC Live Show 5/21!

    Announcement: OC Live Show 5/21!

    They say Saturday is the Rapture.  I, for one, am sure they are right.  But if Christ Himself fails to show up, we will pick up His slack (as usual).  Sigh.  That guy is late for everything.

    So if you have not Raptured by 7pm Saturday, you are invited to attend Our Thursday’s blasphemous story reading in Orange County.  We are much less discerning than most fundamentalist religions.  We will take the scraps of those who were not Saved.

    Miracles to be performed:  I will turn water into cheap beer. Danielle will feed the entire crowd with only 2 loaves of bread and a can of Chef Boyardee. Brian, who died on Thursday, will be resurrected in the flesh. Dave Glenn will deliver a sermon on top of a mountain of trash.  Luke will be beamed in from Chile.

    Maybe.

    But I can, absolutely, promise parables, stories, and laughs.

    The event will be strange, weird, and a demonstration of humanity’s undeniable will to know itself, for better or worse.  Bring some extra food and drink.

    You can find event details by checking the Our Thursday Facebook page or contacting one of the authors.

    http://www.facebook.com/pages/Our-Thursday/152897544751106

    If you have been Raptured or are busy Rapturing, please don’t forget about those of us down here who chose not to leave anyone behind.  In the bizarre case that I am Raptured against my will, feel free to let yourself in and party in my absence.  My record collection is small but smart.

    See you Saturday, you hopeless sinner.

  • Cat Calls

    Cat Calls

    Calling people is weird.  So glad we text stuff now.  Talking in real time gives me the willies. I feel like I should have flash cards or a TiVo remote in case I don’t know what to do.  But some people are pros at it.

    Example!

    In 2007 I was living in Newport with Watson, Chef, and Sunshine.  Our water heater and electrical system had busted and it was one of those beach town winters where you realize no one insulates anything because “it’s California!” but they forget a 50 degree night + wind has the potential to kill everyone.

    Sunshine tried to burn plants in order to keep everyone warm.  I lit candles for Catholic saints.  Watson cuddled with the television.  Chef paced back and forth to keep his body temp up.  The effects of all were middling.

    Chef snapped first.  He started screaming about inequities, American rights, and common decency.  He was so worked up he picked up a phone at 11pm and called our landlord.

    Now that actually might sound like the rational thing to do, but it’s absolutely not.

    As four 21 year old males, it was our goal to keep as far away from the landlord as possible, telephone or otherwise.  In fact, we’d only seen and talked to him once — briefly — when we viewed the apartment, and he’d done nothing but use a lot of swear words while talking about prevoius tenants and their wanton use of “wires”.

    Landlord Jack, to us, was the scary man at the end of the bar.

    Don’t look him in the eyes.

     

    The phone rang twice before Chef remembered this and hung up.

    But we wouldn’t let him off that easy.  All of us wanted to see Chef do what none of us could.  And all of us wanted the heat/electricity turned on.  So we goaded Chef to call back… on speakerphone.

    It rang, rang, rang… and thank God it went to voicemail.

    Now the outgoing message on the landlord’s machine was where things got strange.  It was longwinded, stilted in punctuation, and my transcript of it is somewhat shoddy due to the fact that I wrote it on paper with only the light of Catholic saints.  But… God’s honest truth… Landlord Jack’s answering machine went like this:

     

    “We’re unable to pick up the phone right now,

    But if you’re calling for Lloyd,

    It is our deepest regret to inform you

    that he passed away

    This last Thursday

    After his long battle with leukemia.

    He will be buried

    At Eternal Meadows

    On Sepulveda and Beach

    At 1pm Sunday.

    You may leave a message here

    with your fondest memories

    of Lloyd.

    Thank you so much for your concern

    He was the best cat

    We’ve ever known.”

     

    BEEP.

    Now, you’ve got to imagine that the entire time the phone was ringing, and even while the answering machine clicked on, Chef was rehearsing what sort of message he could leave.

    So at what point do you think his plan faded away / shattered into a million pieces?  Lloyd?  Passed away?  Luekemia?  Fondest memories?  Cat?

    And the implications…

    • Who else had called, specifically or incidentally, for Lloyd?
    • What type of phone calls did Lloyd field when he was still alive?
    • Where did he find the time? (especially towards the end, in between treatments)
    • Can anyone ever truly “know” a cat?

    BEEP

    Time’s up.  What’s your  message?

    I don’t know either.

    Chef held his hand over the phone and stared at us with bulged out eyes.  It was either terror or insanity.  Our laughter died down.

    Channeled by some unseen force, Chef began to leave his message:

     

    LLOYD…

    LLOYD

    YOU DIRTY SON OF A BITCH

    I KNOW

    I KNOW YOU’RE NOT DEAD

    I KNOW OK?

    GIVE ME MY $50

    SERIOUS

    THIS IS EDWARD

    FROM THE [spearmint] RHINO

    YOU’RE FOOLING

    NO ONE

    MEOW.

     

    And that was it.  Next day, swear to candles, our water heater and electricity were fixed.

     

  • The Pope:  He’s Baaackkk!

    The Pope: He’s Baaackkk!

    They are digging up the dead pope’s body.  I swear to God.  It’s not weird.  It’s actually very simple.

     

    Source:  http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/42819424/ns/world_news/?GT1=43001

     

    The world’s largest religion

     

    [a religion is a romantic group of people who center themselves on the principle of faith — which is belief without physical proof.]

     

    Is digging up the physical body

     

    [which is, at this point, a rotting pile of diseased and dying microrganisms]

     

    Of a previous pope

     

    [the pope is a religion’s team captain.  his duties entail sitting in a tiny room by himself and sitting in a bulletproof car by himself.  What does he do when he’s all alone?  He talks to himself .  Then he comes out on a balcony by himself or records of video of himself and tell us what he’s been thinking about lately.]

     

    “The Vatican said the coffin was removed from the crypts below St. Peter’s Basilica while top Vatican officials and some of the late pope’s closest aides looked on and prayed.”

     

    [the crypts.     the CRYPTS?? the crypts.     ThE cRyPtS… woah. ]

     

    This pope was great at what he did

     

    [which was telling everyone what to do.  well, telling everyone what not to do, mainly.  That, and dealing with world crises with his universal action plan of everyone “really hoping things work out ok… for us” aka talking to yourself in a quiet room.]

     

    He was so great at pope-ing that the religion decided he needed to be remembered and honored.  Especially with all the “bullshit gossip” swirling around.

     

    “Liberals in the church say John Paul was too harsh with theological dissenters who wanted to help the poor…  Some say John Paul should be held ultimately responsible for the sexual abuse scandals … Ultra-Conservatives say he was too open towards other religions and that he allowed the liturgy to be “infected” by local cultures, such as African dancing.”

     

    [“dancing”?  “infected”?  Is this supposed to be a potshot reference to AIDS?]

     

    So the “good guys” at the church want to get it on the books that this was a real solid pope. Shut the lunatics up.  And they want to remember and honor JP2 for real and not just in their hearts and minds.  They want to do it right. Not with some bullshit blog post.

     

    [  http://thepopeblog.blogspot.com/ <— dead serious.]

     

    So they are getting shovels and pitchforks

     

    [for the digging]

     

    And ripping his rotting corpse out of the ground

     

    [  correction:  ripping his corpse out of  tHe CrYpTs…    *MUAHahahahaha* ]

     

    Then dragging it across the street

     

    [as a tribute to him, to really show their appreciation]

     

    After which they will “prepare” the body

     

    [lots of makeup, brand new threads, a whole team working together to make him look like the prettiest heap of decomposing flesh/bone possible… because naturally they don’t want it to be weird or anything]

     

    And then someome will chant a series of words which mean more than spoken words because the church has spoken on this matter and promised that the words are holy this time

     

    “John Paul’s successor Pope Benedict XVI will pronounce a Latin formula declaring one of the most popular popes in history a “blessed” of the Church.”

     

    [there’s a formula.  A formula.]

     

    So that the hundreds of thousands of travelers at the ceremony

     

    [the biggest event in Rome since John Paul II’s funeral… this is not as morbid sounding to Rome as one would think]

     

    Who are all caught up (infected?) with a strange, manic craze

     

    “Rome has been caught up with beatification fever.”

     

    [think of bieber fever but with more corpses + ghosts]

     

    Can see the body with their own two eyes, hear the Latin formula with their own two ears, and actually experience something concrete and real, finally get some damn proof in their hands…

     

    “Souvenirs bearing his image have become an instant hit.”

    – Claudio Lavanga (reporting from Rome — MSNBC)

     

    Real proof.

     

    [According to the Telegraph, about $22 million worth of counterfeit Pope souvenirs were seized last week]

     

    While the poor saps at home will sit in a tiny room by themselves and remember and honor and imagine and just have faith in the fact that the Pope wasn’t full of shit.

     

    [I don’t think I like/agree with your assumptions and conclusions.]

     

    You can go to Hell.

  • Coachella:  The Little Font

    Coachella: The Little Font

    I’m going to take a break from being charming and humorous. I’m going to try and be helpful for once. Maybe use my powers for good… like a real serious grown up.

    So let’s talk about the increasingly serious, increasingly grown up, and increasingly Heineken/5 gum/Scion/Sony-sponsored Coachella music festival which has totally sold out.

    Everyone knows the bands in the first 4 lines of each day’s list of artists. Those ones in the little font can get missed. I put together a list of some of the ones I feel are worth checking out.

    DAY 1:

    Mount Kimbie are some of the best at post-dubstep. If you’re wondering what that means, it means that dubstep took a Xanax and decided the bass really didn’t need to be that all-encompassing. It’s still got plenty of hop and bounce, and the artists generally have an incredible ear for rhythm.  Mount Kimbie is a good introduction.

    If you like that, catch Nosaj Thing playing later. He has an awesome visual show which matches his beats flawlessly. It looks clean and pretty… and it’s very complex to pull off. Check out a compilation here .

    If you decide you prefer plain old dubstep, run over and see 12th Planet before he drops dead from doing the same thing he’s been doing for years.

    Ariel Pink’s Haunted Graffiti had Pitchfork’s Album of the Year last year, so I’m surprised they didn’t get higher billing. Maybe because Ariel’s last big profile show took place at a circus and he walked out in the middle of a song and never came back. I wish I could’ve been there.

    OFWGKTA — Odd.  Future.  Wolf.  Gang.  KillThemAll.   Get on this ridiculously over-crowded bandwagon before the wheels come off entirely. I do not understand how you can walk five feet and not get hit in the face by an Odd Future interview/reference/sighting these days.

    And if you’re tired of the far-off future and bored of the distant past, do some guilty time traveling to the revivalists of the 1990s. Cold Cave is a lot deeper than their Radio Shack commercial suggests, and The Pains of being Pure at Heart are extremely good at what they do.

    DAY 2:

    Mary Anne Hobbs — the fairy godmother of modern electronic music. Her BBC radio show was largely responsible for bringing underground UK electronic music to the scene. She has a strong bond with the Low End Theory / Brainfeeder guys like Flying Lotus and Gaslamp Killer and she’s very much in touch with what people call The LA Sound. She’s earned the trust of millions of listeners for her music taste. She’s worth checking out.

    If you liked your experiments with Nosaj Thing or Mount Kimbie, you’ll definitely want to get in on some Daedelus. This video of him performing ridiculous feats on a strange instrument should tell you everything you need to know… if you can explain what he’s doing without watching it 45 times, you are a smarter person than I am.

    I think most people wonder if Lil’B the BASED god is a dumb joke, whether he knows he’s a joke, or whether the joke is on us. But his independent other-world rap style has influenced Odd Future and a host of imitators.  He’s kind of scary if you consider the fact that he may be serious.

    If you don’t want anything too scary, run through The Twelves set. I saw them at Santos Party House and left covered in sweat. If you like the safety of Girl Talk, these guys are for you.

    DAY 3:

    HEALTH — Awesome live show, awesome atmosphere. If you can hang in there during the two minute feedback/screech solo, you are in for a treat by the end.  They made the song Crimewave, which was remixed by Crystal Castles and turned into a mega-hit.  Their drummer is intense. And, most importantly, they have the best twitter account of every band anywhere. Check that out here: http://twitter.com/_health_ .

    You’ll probably need something comforting to balance out HEALTH. Delorean fits the bill with their PassionPit-esque music from the beaches of Barcelona. Half club music and half singalong radio, Delorean is unabashedly optimistic and lighthearted — and they don’t care if that’s naïve. Go and bounce your head along and don’t feel guilty.  If you close your eyes, you could probably pretend that Indio is Ibiza and get away with it.

    If you didn’t get your fill from the 400 interchangeable electronic artists on day 1 and 2, go see Tokimonsta early on day 3.  She’ll sound microscopically different than every other DJ you’ve ever heard, and she’ll look really hot doing it.  If you honestly need more, catch the “legend” Joy Orbison a little later.

    OFF! — I miss my punk. And these guys are good at punk. They’re loud, obnoxious, talented, and not bound by rules. They’re never serious and they don’t care if they help anyone…

    For God’s sake, just walk around while you’re there. Schedules are great, but not for vacations. And don’t forget to stop by the 5Gum Intense Experience Interactive Chewing Simulator (this is a real thing).  See you there.

  • My Father’s Brush With Death and Shame

    My Father’s Brush With Death and Shame

    Years back, my dad was away on business for his computer consulting firm.  He was staying at a Motel 6 in Wichita, Kansas.  After a late night of consulting on computation machines, he stopped at a McDonald’s and ordered what he described as an abhorrent amount of food.

    To translate what that might mean to you, I will say this:  My dad is no fatass.  He’s a lean man with glasses and an intellect that can carve you to pieces… pieces which will then be vulnerable to a certain “rapist wit” that often echoes only inside his own skull — its genius multi-layered irony indiscernible to the average person.  And he’s not one for reckless indulgence.

    So by my best estimates, using a calculator for my father’s level of shame, I would put his fateful McDonald’s order at somewhere between $11 and $15, which, based on the Dollar Value Menu, could have reached an alarming caloric level.

    Once he arrived “home” at the motel, he stripped down to his white fruit of the loom briefs and his black almost-knee-high socks.  Sufficiently comfortable in both mind and body, he booted up his laptop and inserted the DVD for Rumble in the Bronx 2.  Rumble in the Bronx 2 was a straight to DVD spinoff of a kung fu movie starring Jackie Chan.  My father, who has managed an image of refined cinematic taste for over 50 years, was quite aware that this movie was going to be awful — Mom would never have allowed such artless drivel in the house.

    Which is precisely why he waited until he was in Wichita, Kansas with a bag of McDonald’s in a Motel fucking 6 and a do not disturb sign on the door.

    So when he choked on that fateful McNugget, the type of choking past the point of it will pass, I mean really choking… he knew what to do.

    He threw himself off of the crumb, salt, and grease covered bed.

    He hacked and gasped his way past the phone.

    He inched his spasm-ing body towards the chest of drawers

    And as the last remnants of oxygen were being swallowed by his body, as all the lights were going out, he summoned every ounce of human strength left in his body to lift his finger towards the “Eject” button on the laptop DVD player.

    And just as he reached out to press the button, he collapsed on the floor where the resulting impact on his chest dislodged the piece of “chicken” stuck in his throat.

    Now, to hear my father tell it, it all makes perfect sense.

    He saw the phone.  He knew where the water faucets were.  He understood the mechanics and hydraulics of his digestive tract.  There were many routes he could have taken to evacuate the rogue “chicken” morsel.

    But even with all his understanding, he knew there was a chance, just a chance in the grand scheme of probability and quantum physics, that he would not be able to save his own life.  And if that were the case, no fucking way did he want to be found in a Motel 6 in Wichita, Kansas, watching Rumble in the Bronx 2 in his underwear, murdered by his own lust for processed bird chunks and fried potatoes.

    What would the neighbors say?

    The sheer possibility alone was enough to shake him to his core and allow him to face death with the inner peace of a Tibetan monk… he would risk it all to prevent such a cruel bookmark to an otherwise respectable life.

    But he had no delusions of grandeur.  If he got the DVD out, where would he hide it?  On his person?  The mortician would never take him seriously.  Could he destroy it, maybe by breaking it apart and eating it?  Of course not, he was choking, and the autopsy would reveal it anyway.  Flick it under the bed?  Hide it in The Bible in the motel bedside-table drawer where no one would ever look? 

    All the vaults were out of reach.

    No, he knew he was going to be caught.  And he knew that, at best, all he could do was demonstrate a desire to undo his filthy deeds before they were unceremoniously and inevitably uncovered.  His only faith remained in creating actions which could possibly be interpreted in such a way that those who found him could reverse-engineer his thought process and see he knew what he was doing was stupid.

    It was an admission of guilt, a naively idealistic gesture dripping with humanistic symbolism.  And it was his final entry into the Motel 6 Guestbook of Earth.

    But even in what he thought were his last moments, my father’s inner monologue was mostly laughter and a morbid psychic awareness of the police who would find his lifeless body:

    Wow, another sad sack nugget choker.

    Watching a Bruce Lee movie, no doubt?

    Close.  Jackie Chan.

    Poor bastard, dime a dozen.

    Wait… look at the way the body is positioned.  You see that?

    The angle.

    Yeah, based on where his right elbow fell, seems to me he was reaching for someone…

    Or something.

    Maybe the bible?

    No, that’s on the other side of the room, he’d never have enough time…

    Could it be the eject button?

    Wait, on the DVD drive?

    Look at the way his hand is clenched except that finger.

    Well, I’ll be damned. He was reaching for the eject button!

    Almost made it, too…

    Looks like our corpse had a bit of the old bedside conversion!

    A moment of clarity!

    Of all the things he could have done in those last few minutes…

    Sure would have taken a lot of effort.

    You know what?  I bet I would have liked this guy if I had met him in real life.

    Me, too.  We totally would have liked the same TV shows I bet.

    After hearing this story, I’ve never felt closer to my father.

    I no longer believe I was adopted.

     

     

  • Challenge Blog: Oh Man, I’m going to piss you SOO off!

    Challenge Blog: Oh Man, I’m going to piss you SOO off!

    The OurThursday authors love the readers. I mean we really love you and some of us are even prepared to take that to the next level. But recently, in a heated fit of commenting passion, we realized that sometimes if you really want to show your love for someone, you got to make them so angry that new veins will permanently remain on their forehead and small rips will appear in their clothes as their body bulges in maniacal hatred.

    The Challenge

    In 400 words or less, irritate, piss off, molest, disturb, and/or ruin the day of the reader. Audio, video, images, signal flares, are all permitted. No reusing angry villager material like Wheelchair Bicycle or Cat Abortion.

    The Challengers

    Everyone

    ———————————————————–

    Dave Glenn

    As some of you may know, Stanford University recently offered me, a self-proclaimed expert, a position to teach a new course called “Economics of Life” (which I turned down because I didn’t want live there–I’d get so bored I’d end up buying a piano or something). So instead, I would like to offer a five-point crash course on how to live your life, since nine out of ten people reading this probably suck at life. YES, YOU.

    1. When partying, do not begin drinking until 9 p.m. Be patient with your buzz. Too often I see my friends start drinking at four p.m.; and they’re long gone by ten (Remember, the sober moments in life are fun too.). As opposed to: Enjoying the day, partying at night, and passing out at two a.m. Way more optimal.
    2. Get at least eight hours of sleep every day. Take naps if you have to; it relieves stress, and why be tired at night, when you could have easily taken a nap earlier and been living your day at a 100% energy rate? If you’re at a job with crappy hours (8 a.m.-8 p.m.), get a new job. You only have one life (Seriously, this is it.). Stop slaving away and being so damn tired all the time; it’s affecting your attitude and turning you into a mope.
    3. Exercise and eat right. Respect.
    4. Are you under 30 and in some sort of committed relationship? YIKES! What the fuck are you doing? You have the second half of your life to do that. Travel the world, take adventures, explore your creativity, discover yourself! You can’t do those things with another human being nagging at you. And if you think you can, then that explains everything–you lost the human spirit long ago.
    5. Do you feel like you’re living a dull, meaningless existence? Or stumped on the question, “What’s the meaning of life?” Well here’s your problem: Do something! I’m not talking about a high-paying job. I’m talking about doing something you’re passionate about. And no, golf and working out don’t count. Start a business. Start a blog. Help the homeless. Join the Peace Corps. Raise money for a cause. Write a book. Work on a movie. Invent something. There are a ton of ways to avoid simply…existing, and having a lasting impact on the world. Discover your passion, work hard, and do it.

    If this blog has pissed you off in any way, it’s because of you, not me, and you really are sucking at life. Sorry I had to be the one to make you realize this.

    ———————————————————–

    Danielle Burner

    Ginger Snap

    Gingers: a particular breed with a distinct hair type unlike yours and mine (unless, of course, you are a ginger).  Ginger hair is complex and can be strange to the touch.  You never know what’s going on under that Ginger noggin (or stereotypically, under one’s trousers), so tread carefully.

    I know a decent Ginger when I see one, but unfortunately as a minority, Gingers get a bad rap. However, like in any other small group, a strong Ginger will find his/her way to work through diversity and perhaps one day become a president.

    Gingers- don’t knock ’em til you try ’em. You never know, you might not go back!

    Words with Friends challenge- see if you can make a new word using the letters in “GINGER” …if so, reread with whatever kind word(s) you find. If not, I’m guessing you’re a blonde.
    ———————————————————–

    Brian Pratt

    2491 Tivoli Ave.

    I recognized the address. All of the drivers at Vincenzo’s Pizza knew it. It belonged to the handicapped lady who’s “aid” always answered the door. He’d put an X through the tip column of the receipt and hand over the exact amount in change. It wasn’t that they didn’t give, it’s that they went out of their way to leave you with nothing. “Perhaps she’s foreign and unaware of our implied gratuity. . . maybe the assistant is too scared to tell her.” A co-worker hypothesized. Bullshit. They were both stiffs. It was time they got a sneeze-pizza.

    The “extra pepperoni” came out of the oven piping hot, just minutes after the order was placed. I boxed it, bagged it, and walked outside. I placed the steaming box inside my truck bed and opened the cardboard cover. I looked around the empty parking lot as if a drug deal were about to go down. I swashed saliva inside my mouth like it was Listerine before spraying it all over the cheesy surface. A few slices were missed so I churned up some more and hit them with a concentrated load. I clapped off the imaginary dust from my hands and walked back into the restaurant, leaving the pizza out to cool in the chilly night air. If you’re disgusted right now, relax. I didn’t cough up any phlegm or mucus, just a little spit. It’s like cheating on your girlfriend – okay if it’s only a blow job.

    When I pulled up to the house forty-five minutes later, I noticed something was off. I had the wrong address. 2473 was foreign handicapped lady’s place. 2491 was further down. I parked out front the correct spot, peering into the brightly lit entryway. The entire family greeted me at the door with warm smiles- Mom, Dad, and their adorable seven-year-old son. They handed me a twenty for the fifteen dollar pizza and told me to keep the change. I thanked them and quickly left. When I got back to the restaurant I noticed the tip and total columns on the receipt were left blank. I added another two dollars.

    ———————————————————–

    Luke Ollett

    Piss them off? Fuck that.

    These robotic scavengers of life have sent me to the brink of insanity filled rage and I fear I will never return.

    So you’re a teacher and hope to reach that one student … sounds like a 99% failure rate to me.

    So you’re a lawyer … you are the reason for the loss of trust in this world and you make money off it. Urchin.

    So you’re a politician … you are the undulating mass of uselessness spawning lawyers making you a larger urchin than they are.

    So you’re an artist … your shit looks just like that guy I saw down by the pier.

    So you move intangible money … I loathe you and most people in the world do as well. You like that feeling big guy? Hmmm?

    So you’re a chef … ya me too. You don’t see me begging people to pay me for it.

    So you play poker … go whine to someone else about the obvious conspiracy against you … and put some pants on.

    So you are in the middle of a giant corporation managing something that you don’t really understand … you fucked up.

    So you’re an engineer … that baller salary looks like shite when you are working 70 hours a week effectively putting you at the same pay level as the dude who cuts your lawn.

    So you’re a doctor … stop fucking with evolution and let them die. You are single handedly annihilating the human race through your efforts to prolong a single life. Emergency medicine or quit.

    So you own a business … how dare you skimp your taxes to negatively affect the people that give you money.

    So you’re an accountant … your job is to hide the simplicity in what you do. You are useless.

    So you sell real estate … I look at you and see a salivating wolf mask with cocaine eyes and polished teeth.

    So you’re an entrepreneur … if you still call yourself that then you’re failing at life and cannot entrepreneur your way into anything. Douche.

    I live a gratifying, productive, and genuine life and I have these helpless drones floating around trying to fuck up my chi and you want me to piss them off? Well fuck you Mr. Blog. I have enough “pissed off” in me to piss on all these jokers.

    ———————————————————–

    Matt Zbrog

    Abortions should be mandatory across the board for at least a decade.

    “Be fruitful and multiply.” I think even God would be startled at how far we’ve taken that directive. It’s like, your mom told you to brush your teeth… but you did stop brushing them at some point right? You took 6-8 hour breaks before brushing them again, yes?

    We are facing countless problems on Earth. Adding more people is not the answer.

    For reference, here are the problems a mandatory abortion law would solve:

    1. Food
    2. Water
    3. Pollution
    4. Poverty
    5. Unemployment

    We, as a race, are a pregnant 12 year old… with octuplets. We don’t have the education, the funds, or the maturity to handle our situation. We are greedy and irresponsible, and our children are going to pay the price. So instead, let’s take a break, mature a little bit, maybe come up with a 5 year plan, and then go on with creating another few billion lives.

    If we could cut the baby-making for even a decade — the tiniest time out in terms of history — imagine how great the world would look.

    If your brain can’t fathom the big picture of that utopia, let me offer you a few small scale improvements:

    1. Shorter lines… for everything
    2. More stuff… for everyone
    3. More space… for things

    There would be so much extra stuff, we could start giving old shit away. I’ll take this apartment building. You take that one. Fire sale on 1 grade classrooms. No bathroom lines. Want a pineapple? The Dole family has 300,000,000 extra now.

    Like Thoreau said, Simplify, Simplify.

    Quality, not quantity. Progress, shmogress. We have iPads. We have super computers. We have the internet. We can cruise control for X amount of years until we plug a few leaks. We don’t have to fix everything. Like Bill Hicks said, let’s just solve the whole food/air deal first.

    But still, some idiots will convince themselves they are different so they are going to have a baby or four because they’re giving the gift of life… When really they’re only contributing to the starvation and suffocation of billions… stroking their ego with somes trange delusion of eternal life or escape from boredom.

    Hence the mandatory part.

    I understand that some will find the concept offensive.

    Wallace said kneejerk reactions could kill a person.

    If only.

    [poll id=”4″]