The blog is officially five years old and I am drunk! Hapavah Anniflavavah!

On June 18th, 2006, I sat down and typed this sentence:

"Hi there."

"Holy shit, this guy is the next David Sedaris!"

What followed were statements even less profound and prolific than that one. And now here we are, five years later.

Wow.

What a collossal waste of time, huh?

It's been one heck of a wacky run though. I'd like to think that I learned some special lessons along the way and that you did too and that together we've grown. But we all know that isn't true.

So what does the future hold? Nobody can say for sure. Nobody except me, that is. And that's why I'm taking this opportunity to announce my retirement. No more Ridiculously inconsistent trickle. This is it. The last one. Time to grow up and move on to other pursuits. I appreciate all the support you've shown me over the years and I will miss you, but it's done. Good luck and godspeed (whatever that means).

Just kidding.
I'm not quitting, duh*. I don't know what I'm doing next though. No earthly clue. Offhand, I'd say that the next five years will be just like the last five in that it will be spontaneous and arbitrary. I'd also say that I'm just flying by the seat of my pants but I'm not (flying, nor wearing pants).
Perhaps it's all summed up best in the words of a recent commentor:

"Clark, you have just enough of a brain to be dangerous!!"

See ya in 2015. And also on Monday.
The Reverend Clark Brooks

* Did you cry? I bet you did. You totally cried, didn't you? HA HA HA! Yes you did, YES YOU DID! You didn't? Are you sure? You gasped though, didn't you? Oh, you gasped! Because you love me. SAY IT! And you also pee'd, didn't you. I know you did. You pee'd a little bit. Because that's just how much you love me. Go on and say it. Oh my god, you're peeing right now, aren't you! You're a gasping crybaby pee-pants! HA HA HA HA HA HA! Made you look!


I'm going to be very glad to find those crackers there tomorrow.



That sounds about right. So until somebody comes up with a better definition of what I'm supposed to be doing on this planet, I shall continue to go forth and chronicle what my tiny, dangerous brain deems chronicle-worthy.

Holy Happy Anniversary!

When I dentify myself as an ordained minister, some people think I'm making a joke. That's understandable, as the fact that I've never been involved in a sex scandal or stolen any hard-working people's life savings seriously undermines my credibility. But I assure you, those people are incorrect...


I'm a minister! (April 16, 2010)




Most ads that pop up online don't merit much attention other than to make you shake your head and say "why?" (for some reason, Facebook keeps trying to get me to take advantage of fantastic coupon savings at restaurants in Los Angeles). However, the other day I saw this:


"Become a legally ordained minister. It's free! Perform weddings, baptisms, funerals and more"


Well, now that is something! I felt like I had to click it, if for no other reason than to find out what "and more" was. I wondered if it might be ritual sacrifice. I mean, I don't know that ministers do that kind of thing any more, or if they ever did for that matter, but if anybody does, who else would it be?


So I clicked on the ad and was re-directed to the web site of an organization called the Universal Life Church, where I got the details.


"You are about to legally become an ordained minister...Before providing information for ordination, please make sure you have complied with the following instructions:

• Please only put your true and legal name (*nicknames will invalidate your ordination).
• Please use only factual information in this serious religious rite.
• Please double check your name and email address.
• Please capitalize where appropriate, as this is how our records will show your ordination.
• Submitting a fictitious name ordination under your animal's name, or submission without a person's permission is a fraud.

That was it. I kept waiting for the catch (as in, how much money I was expected to cough up) but there was none. They seemed to be a very easy-going organization that has ordained millions of people as ministers, like a McDonald's of spirituality, and their only concern appeared to be fake names. Sure, it was probably hilarious the first couple of hundred times that nullandvoids eating Doritos and drinking bong water submitted Mr. Bigglesworth or the Ninja Turtles for ordination but now they were kinda over it. That and correct spelling and punctuation. Well shoot, I can certainly get behind that. Anywho, long story short (and by 'long story', I mean waiting about a day and a half for an email from Modesto, California), with less effort (or scrutiny) than it takes to fill out a credit card application for the sake of getting a free beach towel at a hockey game, bing, bang, boom, I am a legally ordained minister! See for yourself:

This is to confirm that
Clark Brooks has been ordained as a minister of the Universal Life Church, Modesto, California. Date of Ordination: 04/07/10 by Kevin Andrews, Pastor www.ulc.net


Your request for ordination has been processed and submitted to the Universal Life Church Headquarters in Modesto, California for recording. Please retain the above date of ordination for your records, as you may need this information in the future to fill out the various forms of the clergy...Ordination is for life, without price, and without question of your specific beliefs. You do not need to pay any tithe, donation, or offering of any kind, now or in the future.

Hell yeah! Oh, I did have to pick a title for myself from the list they provided, which is as follows with absolutely no embellishment from me, I swear:


Abbe, Abbess, Abbot, Ananda, Angel, Apostle of Humility, Apostolic Scribe, Arch Deacon, Arch Priest, Archbishop, Arch cardinal, Ascetic Gnostic, Bible Historian, Bishop, Brahman, Brother, Canon, Cantor, Cardinal, Channel, Chaplain, Colonel, Cure, Deacon, Dervish, Directress, Disciple, Druid, Elder, Faith Healer, Evangelist, Emissary, Father, Field Missionary, Flying Missionary, Free Thinker, Friar, Goddess, Guru, Hadji, Healing Minister, High Priest, High Priestess, Imam, Lama, Lay Sister, Magus, Martyr, Messenger, Metropolitan, Minister of Music, Minister of Peace, Missionary, Missionary Doctor, Missionary Healer, Missionary of Music, Missionary Priest, Monk, Monsignor, Most Reverend, Mystical Philosopher, Orthodox Monk, Parochial Educator, Pastor General, Patriarch, Peace Counselor, Preacher, Preceptor, Priest, Priestess, Prophet, Rector, Rabbi, Religious Preacher, Revelator, Reverend, Reverend Father, Reverend Mother, Right Reverend, Saintly Healer, Scribe, Seer, Shaman, Soul Therapist, Sister, Spiritual Counselor, Spiritual Warrior, Starets, Swami, Teller, Thanatologist, The Very Esteemed, Universal Rabbi, Universal Religious Philosopher, Vicar, Universal Philosopher of Absolute Reality, Wizard, Gothi, Gythia, Psychic Healer, Child of the Universe, Prince, Princess, Spiritual Healer, Saint, Pope


I agonized over this decision for nearly 15 minutes, making a short list of my preferences. Here are the runners-up:

• Colonel - Didn't know this was a religious title and wasn't sure if they meant military or Kentucky Fried
• Flying Missionary - Felt this would set people's expectations unrealistically high
• Spiritual Healer - Ditto
• Soul Therapist - Came very close to picking this one, as it fits nicely with my devotion to the grooves, both funky and smoove
• Spiritual Warrior - Too confrontational
• Wizard - Well, now that's just silly

Eventually, I just settled on Reverend. Classic and if it's good enough for Run of Run-DMC, it's good enough for me.


Anyway, now I'm ready to get to ministering. I'm looking forward to starting (and subsequently ending) conversations with the phrase "well, as an ordained minister, I believe...". But I really want to start committing weddings. Oh man! I'm not kidding. And I will work dirt cheap if you hire me (as in, let me attend the reception and get something to eat, take a trip or two to the open bar, maybe chat up some unattached bridesmaids...you know, minister stuff) to do your noop-it-alls (a friend pointed out that I could have just become a notary public and actually made some money at this...thanks for telling me now). Let me stress that THIS IS NOT A JOKE! Now that I am legally qualified to do so, I really want to officiate over people's binding matrimonial ceremonies. I'm not doing this to make fun of religion or people's beliefs. I am doing it to have fun with religion and people's beliefs, but not make fun. For what it's worth, where I stand religiously, when it comes to deities and dogmas, is that I'm enough of a cynic to believe that everything that happens can eventually be explained by nature or science but I'm also open-minded enough to believe that we don't have every answer to every question (yet). And until we do, all bets are off. In the meantime, I believe with all my heart that if everyone on earth did nothing else but follow the so-called Golden Rule, "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you", or "Don't be a dick", that every single one of our earthbound problems would end automatically and instantly. To that end, I do make a sincere, concerted effort to follow that principle in my own life. So like I said, I'm honestly not out to commit any kind of harm to that which people hold sacred...well, except in the case of performing gay weddings, which I will gladly do, because...well, the receptions will be fabulous...and it would make the Rush Limb-ites and Glenn Beck-erheads lose their marbles, which I would enjoy a great deal. Hey, I never said I was perfect, just that I'm a minister.

Slappy Anniversary!

Some people have asked where the Short Conversations come from. Some are enhanced versions of actual conversations I've been involved in. Others are completely pulled out of who-knows-where. The rest of them are conversations I imagine took place in real life somewhere, somehow. Like this one...

A short conversation about design flaws (August 12, 2010)



"Hey, you got a second?"

"Sure. What's up?"

"I wanted to talk to you about the X217 for a minute."

"Ah yes, The Princess Siparella. I'm pretty proud of that one."

"It's a beautiful piece."

"Well, thanks. I worked hard on it."

"I'll bet. I just wanted to talk to you about the straw."

"You noticed that, huh?"

"Oh yeah. Right away. Jumped right out at me, so to speak."

"Well, your eyes do not deceive you, my friend; it is indeed a bendy."

"That's not...ooh, it is, isn't it? Nice!"

"Spared no expense with this one. Yes sir, this is a top-of-the-line sippy bottle."

"That's...um...that's..."

"Up or down, right or left. See? The way it moves around means it's easy to get your mouth around it."

"Oh my."

"At home, at a picnic table in a public park, in a darkened movie theater, in the back seat of a car..."

"It's not the straw I wanted to talk about...it's the straw placement."

"What are you talking about?"

"Look at the...um...well, the juxtaposition of the...see how, in relation to the figure's torso...?"

"No, I don't see..."

"Right...there."

"Yeah?"

"And...right there?"

"..."

"See it now?"

"Oh my God. Oh God."

"Yeah...that."

"Oh God. Oh dear God."

"Right. So...what do you think?"

"I don't know what to think! This is way past the prototype stage! We're in full production and will be ready to ship in two days!"

"Well, we have to do something. This is terrible."

"I could...move it to the back..."

"Really?"

"Yeah, we could just kind of swivel it..."

"So that it looks like it's..."

"Going in to her..."

"Instead of coming out as a..."

"Would that be better?"

"..."

"..."

"Nah, just leave it the way it is."

Photo courtesy of my dear friend Donna S.

Happy Ageless Anniversary!

A recurring character on this blog is The 23-Year-Old. Many people have questioned whether or not she is a real person. I can assure you she is. There's even a picture of her here. She remains the Susie Derkins to my Calvin. No post sums up our relationship better than this one... 



No justice, no dessert (Monday, December 21, 2009)


There was a dessert contest at work the other day, part of the annual company Christmas luncheon. The 23-Year-Old announced that she was going to submit an entry because she thought it would be fun. I agreed. It would be fun to defeat her and crush her dreams during the holiday season. So I announced that I would be submitting an entry of my own.


"So what are you making for the contest?", I asked.
"Oreo Balls! They're so yummy!", she answered. "What are you bringing?"
"I can't tell you. But I'll give you a two word hint. 1) A. 2) Mazing."
"Oh geez, you'll probably get some unclaimed birthday cake from the clearance shelf at Publix and have a chocolate fountain shooting out of it."
"Wrong! Why do you say that?"
"Because when you don't have something of worthwhile substance to contribute, you have a tendency to overcompensate with some loud and showy presentation designed to distract and overwhelm..."
"THAT'S NOT TRUE!", I answered through my bullhorn and hung up.


Now that she'd guessed almost exactly what I had planned to do (I wanted to incorporate pyrotechnics somehow), I had to scramble for a Plan B option. Once I had it, I called to make sure she was still going to be in the contest.


"Yep. And you'd better be there for my victory speech."
"Uh, you're not going to win."
"Yes I am. These Oreo Balls are delicious and everyone is going to love them. You are not going to be able to ruin this for me."
"We'll see about that. Just bring your balls and don't forget to bring your camera."
"Oh, to document your sad little tears when I win?"
"No, to document my huge, awesome tears when my dessert punches your balls in the face."
"Gross."


So the big day arrived and here's what she submitted...

Not bad, I guess. Good try.


Now, here's mine...

BOOM!
Golden sponge cake, filled with creamy foam? Incredible! Here are the two entries side-by-side...

I know, right? No contest!


Well, somehow, I didn't win. Apparently, the judge gave higher consideration to things that people actually made on their own. Well, la-ti-da! Excuse me for not being Bobby Flay or whoever. Shouldn't a bow that enormous and festive count for something? Plus, I noticed it didn't stop anybody from eating the whole box. Communist hypocrites.


Anyway, here is the recipe for the grand prize recipe:


The 23-Year-Old's Award Winning Oreo Balls


INGREDIENTS


1 package regular size Oreo cookies, crushed
1 (8 ounce) package cream cheese, softened
1 package white almond bark
1 package chocolate almond bark


DIRECTIONS

• Using a blender or hand held mixer or a big ol' spoon, mix crushed-up Oreos and cream cheese together.
• Roll into walnut size balls.
• Chill for an hour. The balls, that is. You can chill too, if you want to.
• Melt approximately 3/4 package of white almond bark.
• Stick a toothpick in the balls and dip them in the melted white almond bark.
• Allow to harden on wax paper (takes about 15 minutes).
• While waiting, melt about 1/4 package of chocolate almond bark.
• When Oreo balls are no longer sticky to the touch, decorate with drizzles of chocolate and white almond bark. If you don't have a pastry bag, you can just cut a tiny hole in a regular old sandwich bag. If you do have a pastry bag, odds are you aren't even reading this.

Photos courtesy of the surprisingly ungracious in victory 23-Year-Old

Anniversary celebration demonstration!

So much of what this blog is all about is me trying to help you. I'm a lot like Oprah in that way. Whether it's for how to ride an elevator or where to go for a holiday meal, I'm chock full of good advice. Like this... 

Drive-Thru Etiquette. You're welcome. (April 30, 2008) 



I utilize fast food drive-thrus frequently. Well, not anymore. But when I did, I used them all the time. We're talking a conservative estimate of, oh, I don't know, probably somehwere between 65 to 80 times a week. "But Clark", you're saying "even if you ate fast food three meals a day, every day of the week, that's only 21". To which I reply "shut up". Anyway, the fast food drive-thru is designed for the busy, on-the-go person who doesn't have the time to fart around. Like me. Quite frankly, a lot of you people are screwing this up for fast food achievers. Like me. So in the interest of at least speeding you up if not getting you completely out of my way altogether, I'm going to give you my Fast Food Drive-Thru Code Of Conduct (By having read this far, you hereby acknowledge and accept all terms of the Code. Violation of said terms are punishable by being screamed at by somebody behind you in line. Like me).

1. YOUR CAR MUST WORK. The first word in "drive-thru" is "drive", therefore your car must have the ability to move forward. I think everybody understands that this is a completely non-negotiable must-have element. After all, you can't drive thru if you can't drive. However, almost as important as a fully functional transmission is a fully functional driver's side window. If you can not roll down your window and you have to pull past the speaker or window, open your door and lean halfway out of your car to complete a transaction, you and your car are ineligible for drive-thru status.


2. ONE SIZE DOES NOT FIT ALL. A fast food restaurant's drive-thru operation is a scientifically engineered precision instrument. Typically, it's designed to have one car at the order speaker, a certain number of cars waiting to pay (this number can vary), one car at the pay window, one car waiting to pick up (although this is optional) and one car picking up their food, all stacked neatly bumper to bumper with no wasted space between. This should result in vehicles moving rapidly through the mechanism at roughly 30 second intervals, functioning like the gears in an expensive Swiss watch. That is, until somebody hauling a trailer shows up and gums up the whole works. What invariably happens is Pedro's Lawn Service gets in line and places their order. they pull up and now the trailer with all their equipment is occupying the space in front of the speaker box. Now the employee inside on the headset is pleading with a weedwacker to please place it's order. The weedwacker is indifferent to these pleas and sits silently. The employee eventually gives up, figuring there is nobody in line and decides to take the opportunity to go outside and grab a smoke, leaving the poor slob behind the lawn service with nobody to talk to when it's his turn to order.Similar chaos ensues as the truck and trailer make their way through the system, reeking similar havoc at every step along the way. You wouldn't just drop some big, stupid gear with a Dixie Chopper, three weedwackers and a mulcher on it into a Patek Phillippe watch and expect it to work, would you? Of course not. Listen, if you're out in the hot sun mowing lawns and trimming trees all day, go ahead and park your enormous truck and trailer at the Staples next door and come inside and enjoy a meal in air-conditioned comfort. You deserve it, my day-laboring friends!


3. KNOW WHAT YOU WANT WHEN YOU GET THERE. This is not too much to ask. You must have had some sort of idea what you wanted when you made the conscious decision to pull in, right? Odds are you drove past at least half a dozen other fast food restaurants to get to this one. Even better odds are that you've been here before. So just order already!


But if you really are perplexed for some reason and honestly don't know what to order, just get the #1. It's the best thing they have. That's why they designated it #1. At McDonalds, it's the Big Mac with fries and a drink. At Burger King, it's the Whopper. At Taco Bell, it's some combination of meat, cheese, lettuce, tomatoes inside something allegedly made from corn. At any rate, you can never go wrong with #1.


4. HAVE IT YOUR WAY, AS LONG AS YOUR WAY IS THE WAY IT COMES WITHOUT SPECIAL INSTRUCTIONS. We don't have time for you to specify extra pickles, no onions, mustard only on the left edge of the top bun, mayo applied in counterclockwise strokes and free range lettuce. Just order the #1 with the standard, default settings and let us all get on with our lives, please.


5. ONE VEHICLE, ONE ORDER. You know what happens when the people at work decide I should go pick up lunch for everyone? They all look over the menus from a variety of restaurants, write up their specific orders, detailing exactly which restaurants they want it from, what they want and how they want it prepared. Then they give me their money, some giving me exact change or close to it, others giving me a big bill because "sorry, it's all I have". I smile and tell them I'll be right back. When I return, it's with a big bag of hamburgers (Cheeseburgers? Not a chance) from McDonald's and no change. Dig in, assholes! You know how often they make me go get lunch? Not very. there's a lesson to be learned here, people.


6. ONE DRIVER, ONE ORDER-ER. When going out with the gang, assign the most competent and responsible person among you to drive. Because the person driving the car needs to be the one placing the order on behalf of everyone in it, including rendering payment. The drive-thru is no place for expressing your individuality or a staff meeting of any kind. Got it? No separate orders (see above), no complex financial transactions and no yelling from the backseat or anywhere else in the vehicle. Nobody cares about what you have to say about anything unless you have a steering wheel in front of you. For this reason, if you get kidnapped and are screaming for help from the trunk of a car, you'd better hope the kidnapper doesn't pull over for a Whopper on his way back to his lair.


7. FAST FOOD WORKERS ARE SMARTER THAN YOU ARE. In spite of popularly held belief, the people working the drive-thru are not slow-witted, marble-mouthed, surly, unskilled lowlifes who would otherwise be unemployable if not for the fast food industry. Quite the contrary, these are special people with an elite skill set chosen to a higher calling than you could ever possibly comprehend: They prepare meals for you while you sit in your car!. When you ask for a Big Mac, fries and a Coke (or simply the #1) and get a tossed salad with a bottled water instead (or vice versa), it's not because they made a mistake. It's because they know something you don't and are trying to help you. So don't sit there and do an inventory of your order before leaving the window. Just take it, move on and take comfort in the knowledge that whatever is in there, it was put there by somebody who is looking out for your best interests. Like me.

More anniversary week celebration fun!





I love doing interviews and hope to do more in the future. The ones with Maria Bamford and Steve Jerve stand out as a lot of fun for me, but this one with my buddy Lynne Austin as she prepared for Tampa Bay's version of Dancing With The Stars, is BY FAR the most popular one I've done so far...



Dancing With The Original Hooters Girl (September 25, 2009)

 She didn't cook the food, but Lynne Austin is The Original Hooters Girl. Since the day she forever made it impossible for me to wear orange satin shorts and a tank top in public, the bay area native and avid sports fan has created a career out of being herself. She's appeared on "Married With Children", and hosted television and radio shows. And you may have seen her in a little magazine called Playboy (perhaps you've heard of it? Great articles. I recommend you check it out.) And now the crowning achievement of her career, THIS BLOG! She's currently working very hard, preparing to compete in "Dancing With the Stars Tampa Bay 2009", which benefits Heartbeat International and takes place Saturday, September 26th at 6:00PM at the Marriott Waterside in downtown Tampa. My fellow Rays die-hard fanatic took time out from a grueling rehearsal schedule to chitty chat...

ME (my blog, I get to be in bold and italics): How did you first get involved with Heartbeat International?
HER: I got involved with Heartbeat International through Julie Weintraub of Gold and Diamond Source. I've known her husband Steve for 20 years. I've been lucky enough to receive some beautiful things from Gold and Diamond Source over the years! Anywhoo, Julie asked me to dance. The charity is in affiliation with St Jude's and they provide pacemakers to children around the world that would otherwise die.


ME: Were you much of a dancer before getting involved with this?

HER: Could I dance before I set foot in Fred Astaire? Um...club dance...sure...I could get my groove on. Ballroom dance? Ha! I had maybe seen one episode of the real "Dancing With The Stars"! I had no idea how to tell a swing from a samba. During my first meeting with the director of Fred Astaire, a sweet dude named Fletcher, I tried to back out. I realized I was out over my skiis. He was very positive that I could do it, so I tried. And tried. And tried. My first lesson was August 10th, for an hour. It was like this: "Lynne, swing works on a triple step count", and away we went. Brighthouse Cable taped a few lessons and mine was a bleeped filled hour of frustration as my left foot and my other left foot decided to not play in the sandbox together. After four lessons, my partner Joe, quit. They swear it wasn't my fault. Next saint up was Orlando Pagan, a professional in the true sense. Thursday was my 12th lesson with Orlando. We dance two to three hours per lesson. For the past three weeks, it has been almost daily. My last lesson is today (Friday) and the event is tomorrow (Saturday). You can vote for us online at DWTSTB.com. Please!



ME: What happens when you walk into a Hooters? Does special Lynne Austin theme music play? Do people bow? HER: Well darlin', I was the very first Hooters girl ever hired. Thus "The Original" tag that follows me. That was 26 years ago this October 4th. If we do that math (easy big fella) that would mean some of these women were not even a zygote when I opened the stores. Sooooo, nah, no theme music. Some waitress have no clue I am their personal goddess. Which just pisses me off. I mean jeez, you'd think I could milk this whole boob thing (no pun :) for at least 30 years, yes?


ME: Why have you stayed in Clearwater?
HER: I've done so much in the past 26 years as Hooters billboard girl/waitress/marketing/radio talk hostess. Playboy kept me busy for about five years. The rest of it has been a mosaic of some of the most interesting, amazing, weird-ass things ever. And I wouldn't trade one second of it. I tried my hand at Hollywood, did a few episodes of "Married With Children", two times on "Star Search" and countless modeling jobs. But, the hometown just couldn't be removed from the girl. I came back after a month, happy to be a small fish in a small pond.


ME: My understanding is once you've been a Playboy centerfold, you have Hef on speed dial and can show up at the Playboy Mansion whenever you want. True?
HER: Contrary to popular belief, no, Hef isn't on my speed dial. But, "once a Playmate, always a Playmate" so I am still welcome, with a submitted request and a valid reason, to the Mansion in Holmby Hills California. It really is an awesome place. Kind of like a nakey museum.


ME: Any new projects coming up?
HER: My current passion along with raising four kidlets, is my Rays. Followed chronically for about the last four years. '08 was magical for us homers, '09 was frustrating and heartbreaking as the spell was broken with injuries and 'pen problems. I have no doubt '10 will be fun to watch as we see our farm system prove its one of the best in MLB.


ME: Anything else?
HER: As I get nearer to having yet another great experience tattoo-ed on my soul, Dancing with the Stars Tampa Bay, has been a mixed bag of awesome. Thank you to all my friends on Twitter that have cheered me on and listened to me bitch and whine. I will miss having something to learn everyday. I don't expect to win...unless...we can somehow pull off a Tanya Harding part deux. ;)
ME: I am totally available to serve as a Jeff Gilooly in waiting.



Attention everyone I went to high school with: I won't be attending any reunions but if I did, I'd walk in, announce that I have this woman's phone number, and leave.



Anniversary week continues!

Here's another one from 2006, my detailed analysis of why I think Dennis the Menace is gay. It's a theory I think still stands up today...

Dennis the Menace is gay! (August 31, 2006)

Well, he's still just a kid so not yet. I mean, he is already. You are what you are, from birth, what with your true nature being a part of your genetic blueprint and all, so he is gay already. He's just not, um, practicing. That's not what I mean. Active? No, that's wrong too. He's dormant! Well, more like...oh, just look for yourself!

Oh Dennis. I know a young man is going to want to "experiment" and when you're a child, there's no more trusted friend than the family dog. But for good ol' Ruff's sake...and yours...please don't play "Hide The Harmonica" with him. Believe me, when the time comes, you will be AMAZED by what can (and can't) go where.

"Wouldn't some fresh blueberry scones an' a cappuccino machine be nice? The terrazzo floors are tres tacky and for heaven's sake, would it kill you to open up the space a little bit and let it breathe? Honestly, how many shelves full of books do you need?"

This beachside confab with his mother about his father’s shortcomings is obviously foreshadowing a future where mom will make day trips, alone, into the city to visit him and Joey (a total bottom if there ever was one) at their loft in the theatre district. And look where dad's attention is drawn. Perhaps the apple didn't fall far from the tree, hmmmmm?

Here we see Dennis' longtime companion Joey and lifetime nemesis Margaret. This encounter further foretells a future life wherein Dennis owns a small coffee shop, supporting dancer/waiter Joey and is constantly hassled by strident lesbian Margaret for not being more active in the gay community.

Yeah. Ok. I think it's pretty obvious the only things bloomin' at this dinner table are a young boy's sexuality and an increasingly strained father-son relationship. The hot cup of coffee in his dad’s hand and the ease with which he could be backhanded right out of that chair and across the room are the only things keeping Dennis from complimenting his mother’s FABULOUS floral centerpiece. A fragrant bouquet of bitterness, disappointment and resentment will continue to blossom between the two of them, unlike the preternaturally stemmed flower on display in the bud vase.


There you have it; several factors that foretell the eventual gay path young Dennis will take, making him far more of a "menace" in some people's eyes than anything he ever did in the funny papers.

It's Anniversary Week! Like Shark Week, only with cake! (note: there's no cake)

'

On June 18th, 2011, this very blog that you hold in your hands right now will reach it's 5th Anniversary. That's right, for some unknown reason I posted this on June 18th, 2006 and away we went! To celebrate, In honor of this momentous milestone, I will be spotlighting some ol' favorites (don't worry, I'm taking the week off; new stuff is going up too) , and since it's the 5th anniversary, let's do seven of the most popular posts ever! Doesn't that sound even more self-indulgent and pompous than this whole thing usually is like fun? You bet it does! After all, what's the point of getting older if you can't act like it's a bigger deal than it is to anybody but you?
Let's start the celebration by going all the way back to the early days, back when I honestly had absolutely no idea what I was doing, not unlike, well, right now. Anyway, this is the first non-expository post (well, first two; I don't know why I broke it into two parts. I told you I didn't know what the hell I was doing) I ever published. Enjoy!

Today at the flea market (part 1) June 18, 2006


I am a packrat. I collect stuff (and of course, that means it has to be complete sets of stuff) and can’t throw anything away. I’m pretty pathological about it and should actually seek some professional help for it. Seriously. Anyway, this means I have a lot of accumulated stuff. With the big move less than a week away, I simply had to get rid of some of it. Complicating things is the fact that it’s all too good to simply toss in the trash (Honestly! It is!). That would just be wasteful and that is just not going to happen. Ah, but selling it is an option I can live with. So I came up with the bright idea of packing up six boxes of my least essential old toys, baseball cards and books and hauling them off to the Oldsmar Flea Market (“The Mightiest In The South” if the sign is to be believed). For $15, I would get a stall, two tables and access to a crowd of Father’s Day bargain hunters. So I was there at 7:30AM to set up for the 9:00AM opening when I suddenly realized that I had not put a lot of thought into preparation for this. I don’t know if there’s a “Flea Markets For Dummies” (there probably is) but if so, I’m sure it advises the prospective flea merchant to have signage, bags and money to make change. I had none of these things. The change situation was going to be especially problematic since I had decided that all items would be .25 each or $5 a box. I had exactly two dollar bills, three quarters, a dime and two pennies, my change from breakfast, on me and was wondering what to do about it when a guy from one of the nearby stalls wandered over to check out what I had. I told him, “Everything is either .25 each or $5 a box”. He glanced over everything and gave me $20 for four boxes of action figures and Matchbox cars I had brought with me. While he was settling up with me, a friend of his from another stall came by and bought another $15 worth of assorted stuff. Here I had worried about being able to recoup my $15 startup costs and I had moved 75% of my inventory and was in the black an hour and a half before the doors opened! I was reveling in my status as the biggest boy wonder entrepreneurial genius in the history of the Oldsmar Flea Market, The Mightiest Of The Mightiest In The South, when my inner capitalist woke up and introduced some new doubts. Had I undervalued my merchandise? Could I have gotten more? Much more? Had I just given way a fortune? Had I been ripped off by savvy flea market chickenhawks waiting around in the early morning hours for rubes like me to wander in off the street? Obviously, I was the biggest boob, know-nothing knucklehead in the history of the Oldsmar Flea Market.


But then I realized that I had gotten rid of six boxes of junk I wouldn’t have to haul to the apartment and had put $35 in my pocket in the process and I got over it pretty quickly.
 
Today at the flea market (part 2)



These two transactions pretty much cleaned me out, with the exception of about 15 books. They’re all good books, but with the tables now looking so sparse and there being about 50 or 80 other stalls selling books, they weren’t moving. Even at .25 each. Maybe I was spoiled by my early success or the non-stop bleating of a woman’s voice over the PA speaker right behind my stall (“Come visit The Lingerie Hut in building J…don’t forget to stop by Fragrance City in building F…Father’s Day Special on all VHS tapes at Ammo Junction in the B building…”) was wearing on my nerves, but the gates had only been open for a half hour, I wasn’t selling anything and I was bored. Once I calculated that I had less than $4 worth of merchandise and that it may take several hours to sell it, it was clear that I had reached the point of almost completely diminished returns. So I decided I would invest everything into 20 minutes of hardcore, in-your-face sales pitch and then I would leave and donate whatever was left to the VA hospital. I started engaging people in conversation, making comments about what they were wearing or had already bought as a means of drawing them in. This was fairly successful and even kind of entertaining. I met some very nice people, some of whom bought books, some didn’t but all very nice. When this guy with greasy yellow-gray ponytail in a tie-dye tee shirt, carrying a WMNF pledge drive bag, with a massive stick obviously up his butt (unseen, but you should trust me when I tell you it was there) came by, I only had about six books left, all about baseball. He sneered and made some really snotty comment about me not having any real books. I decided to invest the last bit of energy I had into selling my last $1.50 worth of books about baseball to THIS guy.

ME: Come on, they’re only .25 each. You could give them as gifts to friends of yours who are baseball fans!
HIM (fake, sneering smile): I don’t think so.
ME: Well, anything I don’t sell is going to the burning.
HIM: What do you mean? What burning?
ME: These guys I know. They’re barbecuing some burgers, having some beers and burning some books later. I told them if I had anything left over, I’d bring them by.
HIM: These are books about sports. Why would you even want to burn these?
ME: It’s not my thing. It’s these guys. They just like burning them. They don’t really care what they’re about.
HIM: So you’re just going to burn books? That’s symbolic of fascism.
ME: I know! But what am I supposed to do?
HIM: What are you supposed to do? Give them away! Something! But you don’t burn books!
ME: Give them away?!? Ha ha! Do you see anybody else here giving anything away? I don’t think you get the concepts of commerce and free enterprise.
HIM: I think you’re disgusting.
ME: Whatever. So are you going to save these books or are you going to let an idiot like me just burn ‘em up?
HIM: Idiots like you shouldn’t be allowed to own books!
ME: Wow, now who’s a fascist?

He didn’t buy them and I was spent (it was hot out there). So I dropped off the last of the books at the VA hospital and went home.