Archive for February, 2008

Midnight Snack

Posted: February 27, 2008 in Uncategorized

Haveyouevertriedtoreallytypewithoutusingthespacebar?If youtryitforanylengthoftime,you’llrealizehowdifficultitis.IliketodothisandcounthowmanytimesIhitthespacebar,sortoflikeagame.Ialsoliketotimemyselfandseehowlongittakesme,whonormallytypesaround90WPM,totypeanythingofalittlesubstance.Fortherecord,6times,andaboutthreeandahalfminutes.

It’s fun. It will drive you absolutely crazy. But even better, it will drive others around you crazy. Try it. Try it at work. Try it at church. Or, here’s a thought, send a complaint letter to a company without any spaces. How excellent would it be to be able to inject a little stress into someone else’s life? Almost as much fun as wiping earwax on the end of a pen of someone you know that chews on pens. The look on his or her face alone would be absolutely priceless. Both seem like good torture tactics for Al-Qaeda…I should send them a letter.

So I read something fun this evening and, for all of you arachnophobes out there, you should appreciate it. Did you know…the average person eats 8 spiders in a lifetime whilst sleeping. Not one or two, but EIGHT! I am sort of, no, incredibly curious how that is accomplished. Do that many people sleep with their mouths open? Are there that many small species of spiders that are able to go over the lips and through the gums, look out stomach, here it comes (I could’ve totally botched my own little rhyme there)? Maybe there is a large population of spider eaters throughout the world and their overabundance of spider ingestion has skewed the numbers for the rest of us. Moreover, how did someone come up with this statistic? Life’s fantastic mysteries.

I must admit, I was delightfully appalled when I read this. I was so appalled at this thought that I figured I would share it with you, and say sweet dreams!

Wookin’ pa nub in all da wong places, wookin’ pa nub
–Buckwheat

LongStar

Advertisements

Survey Says!

Posted: February 22, 2008 in Uncategorized

Over the last two weeks (minus my NYC excursion obviously), as I tootle around in my automobile around this great city (and the surrounding areas of course), I have been keeping track of something.

Pray tell, LongStar, what have you been keeping track of?

Thank you for asking, let me fill you in…

Before we really get started, let me give you a bit of a back story. I am, as some of you may know, a Southern guy. I believe in manners and courtesy and chivalry and all the other great qualities of a gentleman that seem to have disappeared in our society. Through my 30-something years, I have spent time all over this great nation, and as an adult, I spent a great deal of time in Los Angeles and traveled to other places. Through all of my travels, I carried my manners and courtesy with me.

My landing point is, if you haven’t figured that out yet, in the Midwest. I love the area, I love the people, I love the snow. However, and that is a BIG however, there is an underlying issue that needs to be addressed and it needs to be addressed now.

During the last 14 days of driving I have, by my count, let 23 people in front of me via the ubiquitous wave. The wave that says, “Sure, go ahead, your comfort is more important than mine.” What I am about to discuss has always bothered me, so much so that I have been keeping a count (via tick marks on a piece of paper in my automobile), and the results of this little survey, or research if you will, are disturbing. Of the 23 lucky souls I have decided not to close the door on with the car in front of me, only one of them, over the past two weeks, has given me the “thank you wave.”

Okay, now…um…what the fuck people? This statistic is incredibly perplexing to me, and I do not understand how or why it is so hard to throw your hand in the air (and wave it like you just don’t care) to let me (and other drivers) know that you appreciate the effort. This lack of effort by non-courteous drivers, of course, leads me to honking and flipping them off, which is just going to put a bee in anyone’s bonnet, including my own. It doesn’t seem like that hard of a task, and such a wave can really brighten someone’s day, and keep the Karma wheel spinning in a positive direction. And by that I mean I will continue to let other drivers in if I feel appreciated for doing so.

As I tend to overanalyze things, this lack of courtesy by Midwestern drivers has got me to thinking. Perhaps, just perhaps, it is that hard. Perhaps, however unlikely, the 22 people that decided to say “fuck you buddy” by not waving have broken arms. Maybe they have monkeys driving their cars for them due to the fact that they are quadriplegic and are merely sitting in the driver’s seat for aesthetic purposes. Or maybe the more likely scenario is they have forgotten how to wave, how to say thank you to a fellow driver, and in that case, let me show you how it is done.

First, right now, get into your vehicle. Oh, okay, not right now, because then you would miss the lesson, but after you are done reading…print this out if you need to. Hold your right arm out to your side (or your left arm if it is a nice day and so desire to extend it out the window…I am not responsible for broken bones or glass if you don’t roll your window down first). Now, with your arm extended, bend your elbow upwards so that your arm is at a 90 degree angle. See that? We can see that out your back glass. I constitute that as a wave, as a “thank you for all you have done LongStar”. You could even take it a step further and wave your hand around a little bit, perhaps in the “princess on a float fashion,” or give the peace sign. If you can lift and bend your arm to flip me off because I honk at you for some idiotic event that just took place due to your ineptitude behind the wheel, you can wave too. It’s just that easy!

So you see, my fellow drivers, not everyone has to be a douchebag. It is just as easy to say thank you as it is to receive the favor that warrants the thank you in the first place. And if you think that it will not come back to you for not being courteous in return, let me tell you my good friend, Karma is a bitch.

And another one gone, and another gone, another one bites the dust.
–Freddie Mercury

LongStar

Breakdancing

Posted: February 22, 2008 in Uncategorized

It has been a while, probably too long. You may be wondering why I took such a break from my self-fulfilling and entirely ego-pleasing writing. Well, my dear Reader, I too like to take a hiatus from time to time. However, with that said, I never intended my break to be so lengthy in its duration, but on occassion, Karma bites you in the ass and the cards that were neatly stacked on the table get strewn all over the room. I have since picked up all of the said cards, impeccably organized them, and I am now ready to start anew.

During my exile, I spent a little bit of time traveling. Ahhhhh, New York…Queen of the Western World. Many people on the west coast think that the world revolves around California. I can tell you, from personal experience, that this is not the case. The sun may set in the west, but only because it is sick of looking at the hellhole that is Los Angeles. New York is not only the gateway to this great country of ours, but the gateway to all that is, well, just fucking awesome. So, in homage to New York, I have written a letter to my geographical lover, and I would like to share that with you, my patient Reader.

Dear New York,

My dearest, let me preface this by saying that I love you. We first met a year ago, and the fire you have lit in my soul has burned inside me ever since. When I saw you again, it was like no time had passed. Our love affair picked back up right where it left off, and for that, I am eternally grateful. And while I am madly in love with you, and all that you have to offer, like all relationships, there are some faults.

New York, my sweet, you should really learn to get some sleep. Staying up all night, every night, has taken its toll on your appearance, and sometimes you look a little disheveled. The constant clatter of the unnecessary honking of horns by your overabundance of foreign cab drivers can be quite a distraction for a laid back cat such as myself.

And my dear, while I know you are busy, that is really not an excuse to be so rude all of the time. Perhaps you might find that if you take the time for a “thank you” and “excuse me,” the world of those around you might be brightned just a bit. Your attitude may stem, however, from the large amount of British high school children that have invaded your humble abode (the British are coming! the British are coming!). I too am annoyed by their fractured accents and their Sid Vicious style. I agree, get a haircut hippie.

Those things aside, you are amazing. Your culinary skills are beyond any European country, and I could eat your delicious pizza 7 days a week. Add into the mix your neverending creativity (thanks Betty!) and your ability to lose me in your eyes, and you have the perfect recipe for our undying love.

I know, my love, that I am not the only man for you, and I have found acceptance in that. I take solace in the fact that you will remember me, and will always sing me your siren song when the fire becomes too much to bear. Thank you New York my love, for being everything you have said you will be and so much more.

Yours Eternally,

LongStar

P.S.–My dear, I would seriously consider cutting LaGuardia out of your life. He is a total piece of shit and just gives you a bad name.

So, my Reader, that is what I have been up to, albeit in an abbreviated format. I look forward to talking to you more as I reattach to reality and continue this thing we call life.

Oh, and one last thing, and cover the kids’ ears: Fuck you Midwest Airlines. You suck big sweaty donkey balls. I hope you die.

I always thought Colorado was right next to California, I didn’t know it was two states away.
–The idiot dipshit moron that sat behind me on the airplane and wouldn’t shut her fucking trap the entire flight back. And get some headphones for your laptop bitch, nobody wants to listen to Jeff Foxworthy muse about being a complete dildo.

LongStar

Believe it or not, my dearest Readers, I am the recipient of emails regarding the content of my rantings and ravings. Most of these emails are quite vicious, ranging from anything to death threats (come n’ get me) to proposals for marriage (um, no thanks). Sometimes, however, I do get some good questions, one of which I would like to share with you today.

Dear LongStar,

Why are pickles in a restaurant so much tastier than pickles out of a jar?

Thanks.

Pipsqueak

Well, thanks for your question Pipsqueak, and it is a wonderful question. While I do not concur with you that pickles in a restaurant are more delicious than a jarred, preservative filled pickle, I appreciate the tastes of others and decided to do some research on the subject. I was quite shocked (and quite honestly rather elated) when I found the answer to your question.

Jarred pickles are, of course, soaked in spices and vinegar. As one can imagine, they are also jarred with other chemicals to improve shelf life, but they do not really add to the taste of the pickle. Restaurant pickles are, suprisingly enough, soaked in bear urine. Bear urine, it turns out, is not only sterile, but rich in fish oils and natural vinegars that help to keep the pickle crisp and maintain a more cucumberish color.

There you have it, the answer to one of life’s great culinary mysteries. So next time you are at a restaurant, enjoy a fresh, natural, environmentally friendly pickle.

Please, please, please don’t drag me down.
–Jack Johnson

LongStar

Legshot/Paradise Lost

Posted: February 11, 2008 in Uncategorized

Ahhhh, family time. It goes without saying that spending time with your loved ones tends to stoke the creative fire, normally at the expense of those that are closest to you. As I dined at a local establishment this evening, I found that my verbal daggers are not directed at those in my family, but rather at those ancillary characters and places that breeze by me unnoticed on most occasions. Perhaps because I am feeling a bit frisky these evening, no critical stone has remained unturned on this chilly (fucking cold) February evening.

I do not, as you can imagine, live the “street” life. I am, for lack of a better word, a cracker. I am just a normal white guy, living a normal white guy life. I live in the suburbs with my dogs and my plants and my car. My hat is on straight and most of my clothes fit. That aside, I do not have a problem with those that choose a different road down the fashion highway, as I understand the need for individuality. If you choose to wear your pants around your ankles and wear a belt simply for aesthetic purposes, by all means. If you choose to wear clothing that Nell Carter and Carnie Wilson (before the surgery of course) could fit into with 17 midgets and 11 goats, go for it. However, I do not understand one aspect about that whole “look.”

The limp…what is with the limp? I saw a gentleman walking this evening, wearing the aforementioned attire, walking with a severe limp. I wanted to ask this gentleman if he needed an ambulance. Did he just get shot in the leg? Did all his friends just get shot? Does he have a prosthetic or wooden leg I just didn’t see? Or is the bagginess in his drawers, perhaps, a deuce that has weaseled out and is now residing at the base of his undies, and he is walking gingerly so it doesn’t squirt out onto the floor? Or, and probably the most likely of scenarios, is walking with a limp some sort of status symbol…something to do with the “street” look and “street” life that a normal cracker such as myself couldn’t possibly understand? I am utterly baffled, and quite honestly, a little worried. I think he might need a doctor. Maybe he doesn’t have insurance.

On to the establishment. Out of courtesy to Jimmy Buffet, I will not name the establishment, only to say that it revolves around patties of beef, covered in a dairy product in some sort of Edenesque (another new word, mine) setting. This is not one of my favorite places in the first place, but sometimes you just have to grin and bear for the sake of the greater (family) good (fight avoidance). Of course, with a large party, 20 minutes of waiting turns into 60 minutes of waiting. I did my best to not let this gnaw at my intestines like a tapeworm and just ignored the fact that they overpromised and under delivered. After we are settled, food gets ordered and the fun begins…

Let me tell you that this establishment must be a fan of Kraft related products (kickbacks?). So, first up, “spicy queso and chips.” Sounds promising. I like spicy. I like queso (cheese for all you gringos). And it just so happens I enjoy chips. The presentation is okay when it arrives (finally), but the presentation is where the goodness ends. Any promise of an assault on the taste buds gets flushed as quickly as a prom night dumpster baby (thanks Seth). Upon dipping the spoon into this concotion, you quickly realize that the “queso” is nothing more than Cheese Whiz, most likely microwaved, mixed with Pace Picante Sauce. Dipping the chip into and placing said dipped chip into your mouth, you are immediately reminded of movie theater “nachos,” and I expected the lights to drop and the feature to begin at anytime. The salsa provided with the “queso” is also Pace Picante Sauce (New York City, get a rope). Bummer.

The main course arrives, and the taste is pretty standard, with a few exceptions. One of the young pups in the group ordered mac and cheese off the kiddies menu. This mac and cheese must have been an original recipe…for Kraft. In addition, one of the side dishes was nothing more than chicken flavor Rice-a-Roni. How, might you ask, would I know this? Well, as a young bachelor, such dishes were cheap and easy to make, and considering my culinary skills were in their infancy, Rice-a-Roni was always a staple in my hovel. Not to mention, I mean, come on, it’s the San Francisco treat, and well, the flavor can’t be beat.

A plagiarism of taste is what this turned out to be. Unoriginal in the recipes and decidedly disgusting in the delivery of pasta aisle rip offs. If I could vomit and get my money back, I most certainly would. But alas, I will just have to settle for depositing the byproducts of digestion into an envelope and sending them a letter of my displeasure. I need to take a shower…the smell of processed food is seaping out my pores. I feel so used and dirty, like Paris Hilton after a weekend in Vegas.

Oh it’s nausea, oh nausea and we’re gone.
–Beck

LongStar

Minutiae

Posted: February 8, 2008 in Uncategorized

Some days, as I’m sure each of you find, reflection upon the variances of the world comes easily. There are, of course, times where reflection is non-existent; times when we sit back and just ride the wave of life until we are washed ashore and covered in sand. I have found that, as I brush off the wet sand, this is when reflection is at it’s strongest, and perhaps it’s most valuable.

Today I reflect on my upbringing, and how it has shaped me into the person I am today. I have noticed that as I cruise from place to place in my life, from city to city and town to town, I am able to adapt quite easily. It makes me think of my chamelonesque (new word, don’t steal it, it’s mine) qualities. It dawned on me how quickly I learn the minutiae of a new place, and that blending in and becoming essentially invisible is a less than daunting task. Accents and clothes and sports and activities all change with each new place, and unless one adapts to such things, and quickly, one will find themselves wrapped in a web of misery and loneliness.

As a child, I was forced to adapt to each new place, and in many cases, I withdrew because it was easier to withdraw than to insert myself into each brave new world. I never thought about this fact growing up, it was just the way it was and I was fine with it. Nor did I ever struggle with depression or unhappiness, I just chose to keep the newbies at arm’s length because, chances were, I would move again soon. And this little nugget of information leads me to my point…

The tragedies of our youth may not become lessons until we become wise enough to understand they were really lessons, not just tragedies. Whether a person realizes it or not, you learn to deal with adversity; to deal with the imperfections and faults of others, and learn to overcome your own personal deficiencies and turn them into successes in love, friendship, and of course, life. We all see ourselves in a different light when we look at our reflections in the water. Some of us see ourselves as chameleons, others see ourselves as frightened children, but in the end we all see ourselves as the same thing: a human being.

And this, my friends, is how we are made, and this is what is so wonderful about being a human being…the uniqueness that goes along with being perfectly imperfect.

Today is the greatest day I’ve ever known
–Billy Corgan

LongStar

Intoxication Proclamation

Posted: February 7, 2008 in Uncategorized

Ugh.

I am not going to proofread this, so if my spelling and grammar is jacked beyond belief, please forgive me, and go fuck yourself.

I am old enough to know better, but apparently I am stupid enough not to care. I don’t understand that why, for like the 150th time, I decided to go drinking on a school night. It seems so rational whilst it is going on, but then there is always a catch. And the catch, my dear friends, is the next day.

So this morning….not even a Mickey D’s breakfast, shooting the bird seven times, and honking my horn four times could relieve the pain of my morning. Topping off the Asian drivers on their phone is me falling in the parking lot, on the ice, in front of people. I’m graceful enough as it is, so you can imagine how I look while I am falling.

So that’s it. I had to get this out. Maybe I will vomit…maybe I will crap my pants…who knows really.

Gotta gun?
–Me at 9:07 AM.

LongStar