The Mushroom Project

This is a story that I used to tell Lib last year that I never finished. She would claim that it was something I did when our relationship was "green" and exciting; it was a story she would have me tell when she couldn't sleep and she wanted to hear my voice--it was also a story that I would tell when I was tired and wanted to sleep, but I did get some really good ideas out of it, and while it was rough and impromtu, I have wanted to refine it and write it down, so I created The Mushroom Project. I need to imbue it with some overall purpose and meaning, but the plot, while scattered, will work. I don't know exactly where it's going, but I decided to make a blog so I would have more satisfaction than just starting at Microsoft Word knowing no one would ever read it. The only real issue is that the order will be posted in reverse, but I'll worry about that when it becomes an issue. Until then: http://www.themushroomproject.blogspot.com/

Every Bald A-Hole II

Today, I was in a parent-teacher conference, and a very nice woman came to check on her son's performance. As I wrapped up the conference, she asked, "Were you in Salt Lake City this summer?" Now, I have never been to Salt Lake City, and nothing against the Mormons, but I can see no real reason for going there; more importantly, why would an woman ask a teacher if he had been to Utah? So I said no, I had never been there, and she replied, "Oh, it must have been someone else." ???????????????? I guess she thought she had seen me. Once again, I guess any bald a-hole with a goatee must be me. Speaking for rugged, bald men, I am getting sick and tired of being depersonalized--just last week, a woman asked me for help in the hardware section of Wal-Mart because obviously, I worked there, and this is not the first time: I have been asked for assistance at Costco, Home Depot, Target, and Lowe's. What the hell does a white, bald man with a goatee have to do to break through this stereotype? We just want to know how to be seen as individuals, and not some stock handyman who can help with any home improvement question. And for the record, no we do not all know each other.

Tiger Mountain Peasant Song

I first heard Lib's sister and her friend sing this with a ukulele before I heard the original Fleet Foxes version(is it really a version if it's the original?), which were both incredibly beautiful, but not as good as these two Swedish girls. Also, the girl on the right reminds me pictures of my mother when she was younger and reminds me my niece too, which is nice since I don't get to see them much.

I'm Your Ooogie Boogie Man!

I was looking through my old emails this weekend and I came across these pictures from six years ago when I went to the Hasbro Halloween party. I spent a week constructing my OogieBoogie, and it was the last time I really put any effort into into my costume.

Between a lack of inspiration and life getting in the way, I just haven't really lived up my standards, but that is all about to change. I can't reveal anything prior to this year's party because there is a contest, and if I can pull off my costume idea (which I'm not too worried about), I may be able to take the grand prize; the only thing that kept me winning at the Hasbro party was my friend Jared (right), a guy who grew his beard for over a year to be the perfect Jack Sparrow and the fact that there was no competition, but I was told we were all pretty close, even though Jared converted a case of beer to a Duff case that played the Duffman song. Not bad for competing with toy designers--a party full of teachers should be easy pickings. Mwahahahahahhaahhahahahaha!

Here's a shout out to the rest of the gang:

• Rico as Scorpion
• Phil as The Jerk
• Clint as 80's Clint
• Christie as Clint (the nail polish on the tooth was perfect!)
• Jennifer as Gem
• Travis as Slash

Was it all a Dream?

Here's an interesting story. Yesterday I was at one of the local establishments having a couple of beers (a few laughs) with some of my friends, and I discovered something very intersting about an experience I had at one of their houses.

Some time back, maybe a year and a half ago, I was staying over and slept in his basement--it was anything but restful. I had one of those waking dreams where I believed that I had awoken, but I couldn't move. There was the presence of a man walking around me who was not happy, a very menacing figure. It was a spirit;I remember him being tall and shadowy, and I remember being paralyzed and afraid of him. He had no features outside of the shape of a man, and he did not want me there; that was very clear. It came from the stairs and circled me. I kept trying to wake up, but in the "dream" I was awake. I'm still not sure, but it was very creepy. I never said anything because I just assumed it was a dream, even though it seemed real.

Yesterday, I was talking to his girlfriend, and she was telling me how when her friend came to visit who is "sensitive," they asked her about the house, if there was anything going on in his place(at this point in her story I started telling her the details before she said them to see if they jived). I said "it is in the basement"; the friend had said the basement stairs (I slept at the foot of them). I said it was not happy but not evil (the same words that her friend told her). I said it was definitely male, but I don't think the friend gave a gender. I could see that my interjections were creeping her out.

Coincidence? There is actually a pretty good chance it was coincidence. If you had to name a creepy place in anyone's house, the basement would probably be the first. His basement is finished and nice; I've never felt creeped out in the slightest down there before, and it's not like I haven't been down there since--I just don't care to sleep down there, that's all. "Unhappy but not evil?" Well, I think that would just about sum up most ghost descriptions--how many happy ghosts have you heard of? I just think it's interesting and possible.

Did You Mean This Culvert?

Well, Brandmanager, I just wanted to say: I saw your comment on my punching machine post(very esoteric), and if this is the guy you are talking about, then I agree wholeheartedly.

Bearly Funny

One of the teachers at work, a fan of Ingloreous Basterds, was telling us how he loved that movie and how he was now referring to himself as the "bear jew," a large, savage, jewish, nazi-killing soldier in the film, but not because he is any of those things (except jewish), but because he is very hairy. A half an hour later, as I was running out in the country, I thought how witty and funny it would have been if I had said, "That's funny, because my friends call me 'Gentile Ben!' I was pissed that not only had I missed an opportunity, but I missed the greatest double pun of all time, and I couldn't go back and explain it to him after the fact. Sure it's still witty and clever, but had I thought of it off-the-cuff and delivered it without missing a beat, I would have been crowned the cleverest man of all time. But I was a thirty minutes too late, and that makes all the difference.

Once in highschool, my teacher was reading us a note from his sponsored, African orphan where the kid was talking about his uncle Pepto, and I responded immediately with "Does he have an Aunt Acid?" I brought the house down. But there was no delay. No less impressive was last year when Lib drew tapeworms all over my dry-erase board in different colored markers with milti-colored segments raining from their intertwining bodies; it looked so festive that I referred to it as a "ticker-tapeworm parade". I didn't even know I was going to say it until it came out of my mouth; instead of laughter, she just grinned and nodded because she doesn't find witty things funny, but if I make a fart noise or create a new vivid string of swear words, she laughs uncontollably for minutes, which actually makes up for it because I'm vulgar and childish much more than I am witty.

Since this unheard pun had been eating at me for days, I finally had to tell the "bear jew" about my missed opportunity. I didn't want to, but I thought he needed to know--and it's funny. To my relief, I was met with laughter and a high-five, so even though it went against everything I stand for, I felt validated, and that is what is important. And since he thought it was funny, you have to read about it.

170 lbs. of Muscle

Friday night at one of the local dives, there was a boxing machine that tested how tough and manly someone was based on his (or her) ability to punch a cheap vinyl bag. The machine then registered the punch somewhere between zero (hopeless) and a thousand (boxer)--below "boxer" was "killer", which doesn't really make sense, but whatever. Dave gave it the first smash and got somewhere between 500-700 (brutal) on both his punches. I stepped up directly thereafter and registered a pathetic 490 (anemic) but then followed up with a stronger second punch in the high five hundreds to earn my "brutal" status, which made me feel a lot better, even though I feel there should be something between "anemic" and "brutal," but I'll take it. The largest guy in our party was too self conscious to play, but I let it slide since I watched him manhandling people in a comedy club fight last year as his girlfriend pinned a guy to the ground with her knee, and I tried to pull her giant brother off of another guy who he had thrown over a table. (See "Daily Sentence of Dave" September 29, 2008 for story) And I might add, Dave did come from the exit before the action ended, and disappeared into the melee. I don't know what he got into, but his wife said a couple of times that evening that she wanted to take him home so she could...well, let's just say she was turned on.

Back to the boxing machine: later in the evening, a monster of a man walked into the bar who was about six-feet-six, 250 lbs, a real meatball, so when he stepped up to the bag and was about to give it a wallop, I took my time buying a beer so I could have a better understanding of my shameful kiddie punches. He gave it a blast into the six hundreds, and it was clear from across the bar that he had only lit up the third light: "Brutal". He must have missed, or maybe the girl behind him punched it, but no! He wound up and gave it a second smash--pretty solidly, I might add--and still only registered a brutal. No kidding.

This can only mean one thing--ok, two: first, the machine could be worn-out and inaccurate, or the second possibility, which I think is more likely, Dave and I are actually bruisers who could hold our own with large muscular men, and even though they may end up taking us with their slight, high-sixhundreds edge, we would do some damage with our nearly-equal, fivehundreds "brutal" strength.

Gastrocnemesis

I tried running barefoot, really barefoot, the other day. Ok, I did cheat a little bit. I ran barefoot on a treadmill to see what it was like without having to worry about rocks, glass or syringes; and I have to say, it was great. It took some time to get used to, but once I got warmed up, it was very liberating. Without the weight and constiction of shoes and socks, I didn't even get tired. I only went a mile and a quarter at eight miles an hour, but other than trying to stay on the treadmill, it was effortless. Even though I was feeling good, my feet were getting a little raw and I was rattling the entire apartment building, so I decided to stop.

After that, I felt so good that I needed to burn off some more energy and took off on a short run in my sandals--running on the street is different because you actually have to propel yourself forward; on a treadmill you just have to move your feet. Either way, it felt good, and as I was rounding my way back to the apartment, full stride in my sandals, the universe, in order to show its support for my grass-roots return, sent a hippie on an old bike with a big red beard and thrift-shop wardrobe who cheered, "Yeah, man! Run, man, yeah." I felt like I was truly born to run. The next day, however, the universe decieded that maybe I was getting ahead of myself and crippled me with sore calves and raw feet, and two days later, I am still hobbling around(Lib says I look like Frankenstein's monster) waiting for my legs to stop hurting so I can get back out and run.