Hello all. I am little lost today, or rather, confused about where I should go with my personal style. Yes, I know, vanity is for the birds. But try telling a guy who wears a mustache and nut-hugging jeans in the prime of his life that his 'look' isn't "all that important". As my Dad always told me, "Kurt. I love you, because you are my son, but mostly because you are young, dumb, and full of c**...and that is funny to me."
Sidenote: For the record, almost every time I heard that speech I took a moment to reflect. And, after all these years I have realized that my father most likely impregnated my mother a second time for very specific reasons. The first son was born for the longevity of the family name. My brother, the brains of the family, was meant to do something with his life. The pride of the family - well spoken and articulate, intelligent nearly beyond measure, gentle and kind - he is destined for greatness of some sort. I, on the other hand, was sired for an entirely different reason. My parents needed some comedy in their life, something to laugh at..."Oh! Look at what he is doing now! Haha...he's eating fertilized soil from the potted plant again! Wearing nothing but rubber boots and a T-shirt." Mom. Dad. That's some cold shit.
Back to the point...style and my first day back on campus. You know how it is, the first day of school and all. Not all that much has changed for me since my Mom first dropped me off at Kindergarten, or pre-school, or at the orphanage...(I'm over it, whatever). I still cry, and get all nervous about whether or not the other kids will like me. I still get nervous, wondering if I picked out the cool folder at Shopko®. Everyone else always seemed to have the sweetest fucking Trapper-Keeper™, and there I was toting my hand-me-down Thundercats© folder, all dog-eared by my brother who had cast it away the second day of class, six years ago.
Now, some fifteen years later, I still wish I had gotten up a little earlier to plan my outfit. And wouldn't you know: Fuck! Here I am wearing the same shit as last semester, and wouldn't you guess it...Puma shoes are out now! Last semester I was cutting edge, the shining fashion-beacon guiding those poor lost souls to Cool Harbor. And now here I am, shamed in my inability to understand how the hipster movement was changing for the new season. Apparently, while I was busy working my ass off to pay tuition, the rest of the world went emo and now everyone is wearing dopey run-down looking hoodies, long messy hair, and tight jeans. I can't even listen to Snow Patrol without feeling like Carson Daily and the rest of the MTV crowd are poking me in the back with their hipster hard-ons.
Does this mean that I have to find a new look to express my inability to conform? Do I stay-the-course, hoping that the wave will pass me by, and that in another ten years I'll be that thirty-something year old ass that teenagers acuse of being stuck in the...10's? By the way, what are we supposed to call this century? There are previous guidelines for the 20's, 30's, 40's, etc.; but what are we supposed to say about right now when referencing back to now in the future? I'm so confused!
Moving on, here is the rub. Today, I am walking across campus, (I know a self-respecting 25 year old should not be admitting he is still in college, let alone an undergrad...), and all I see are frat guys in 7™ jeans, Minnesotans plastered in Ed Hardy™ and American Apparel™, and JAP chicks cruising down the road in vintage Land Rover™ Defenders wearing Ray Bans™ and leather motorcycle jackets from the 80s. Okay, I understand it's not very 'hip' to name labels like I was from the suburbs, but without Chrome™ messenger bags, the 'bike messengers' in Madison, would just be a bunch of skinny assholes wearing vintage horn-rimmed gogg-a-loons, tight T-shirts, and London Calling™ jeans. Speaking of bike messengers, if you are such a 'bike messenger' deliver something already...and stop trying to run me over on your single-gear, stripped-down city bike. The point being, I don't even know who is who anymore. Think. When was the last time you went to a coffee shop? Who was there? EVERYONE! Where am I supposed to go to identify myself as the undiscovered literary genius that I am? How can I possibly be a coffee snob when everyone knows that a Café Americano is just espresso in cup with some hot water? Can't we just slow the fashion scene down a little?
Maybe we should have a national 'Look' registration table or something. That way, if you wished to persue your individuality by means of personal style, you could easily register said 'look' with the government and then sue the shit out of the next 18 year old knob who broke the law by committing 'look infringement'. Or even better have him arrested on the spot by the 'Style Police'. I mean, your 'look' is important, right? Roxette wrote a fucking song about it for Christ's sake. Sure, there are still jocks, and chearleaders, and rockers and whatnot, but who is protecting the little guy? No one. With these larger groups preying upon our style, upping the anty all the time, I'm going to end up walking out of the house wearing flippers and a tiara just to feel like myself again.
Alright, rant over. It's time to get down to business and start petitioning the government to protect my vanity, insecurity, and frailty of character.
Thug 4 Life.
So...some of you out there may already be well aware, but for those who aren't, I am a touch obsessed with my cat. I have an ability to latch onto relatively inane things outside of the general interest to the public at large, and my cat has become one of them. She is my joy, a little ray of sunshine perched with her little hairy ass dangling precariously from the window sill when I come home from class. I digress.
Let me explain. So my cat and I have this inexplicable non-sexual peas-and-carrots type bond. By this line of thought, it would be totally expected that I make mention of her not only in life and on the street, but in my blog as well. Let me introduce you.
Name: Squirrel Bill Football, also answers to 'keeten' spoken in an annoyingly high-pitched voice, (not my fault).
Sex: Androgynous Cat, (again, not my fault).
Weight: Medium-to-Large size box of Minute Rice
Height: Not sure...the front legs are considerably shorter than the back ones.
Body-type: Bowling Pin-shaped, (tiny head - fat body).
Hair Color: She can't decide, but I've settled on 'Shit Mess'.
General 'tude: Needy.
Position most likely to be found in during sleep: Yard Sale/Trash Can Lid.
Stand/sit/crumple/fold?: She's a cat. She shits in a box full of sand while squatting, and then 'replaces her divets'.
Alright, that's the general overview of my cat. I generally have something funny to say about her and more than welcome an open ended conversation about her views of pretty much anything, including politics, animal voting-rights, and the costs of policing international border control policies, for example. I plan on making her story a general 'Feature' in my blog, so feel like one of the family, and stay up to date on what Squirrel has been up to in the last couple of weeks.
Needless to say, I love her very much and become emotionally upset by hurtful comments. For example, when I left Madison last summer to work in New York, I was forced to leave her in the merciless hands of my cat-hating girlfriend for the summer. My nerves were on edge for weeks ahead of time, and I apologized to Squirrel Bill profusely for making plans to leave her so long. If you don't have a cat, or have never been in this kind of situation, you will never understand the death-gaze in the eyes of a kitten scorned. So you can imagine my distress, when, during the second week of work, my girlfriend casually informed me that she had placed a "Free - Cat that Sucks." sign in the very public front window of our downtown apartment. I freaked, and while trying to keep a calm and laughing tone, scrambled for my laptop desperately searching for the next flight out of New York and back to Madison to save my favorite quadraped from the bitter clutches of a persnickety women. Lucky for the both us, (cat and myself), my old lady was only slightly kidding and Squirrel nervously maintained good health until my return. But man-o-man, you bet your ass she was listening and mad as hell when I got home. It took her a good month to love me again. That's old news, but you get the point. I'm attached.
In recent news, she has been licking herself, sleeping on random furniture, and biting my feet when I pass in socks.
Stay tuned for further updates!
Let me explain. So my cat and I have this inexplicable non-sexual peas-and-carrots type bond. By this line of thought, it would be totally expected that I make mention of her not only in life and on the street, but in my blog as well. Let me introduce you.
Name: Squirrel Bill Football, also answers to 'keeten' spoken in an annoyingly high-pitched voice, (not my fault).
Sex: Androgynous Cat, (again, not my fault).
Weight: Medium-to-Large size box of Minute Rice
Height: Not sure...the front legs are considerably shorter than the back ones.
Body-type: Bowling Pin-shaped, (tiny head - fat body).
Hair Color: She can't decide, but I've settled on 'Shit Mess'.
General 'tude: Needy.
Position most likely to be found in during sleep: Yard Sale/Trash Can Lid.
Stand/sit/crumple/fold?: She's a cat. She shits in a box full of sand while squatting, and then 'replaces her divets'.
Alright, that's the general overview of my cat. I generally have something funny to say about her and more than welcome an open ended conversation about her views of pretty much anything, including politics, animal voting-rights, and the costs of policing international border control policies, for example. I plan on making her story a general 'Feature' in my blog, so feel like one of the family, and stay up to date on what Squirrel has been up to in the last couple of weeks.
Needless to say, I love her very much and become emotionally upset by hurtful comments. For example, when I left Madison last summer to work in New York, I was forced to leave her in the merciless hands of my cat-hating girlfriend for the summer. My nerves were on edge for weeks ahead of time, and I apologized to Squirrel Bill profusely for making plans to leave her so long. If you don't have a cat, or have never been in this kind of situation, you will never understand the death-gaze in the eyes of a kitten scorned. So you can imagine my distress, when, during the second week of work, my girlfriend casually informed me that she had placed a "Free - Cat that Sucks." sign in the very public front window of our downtown apartment. I freaked, and while trying to keep a calm and laughing tone, scrambled for my laptop desperately searching for the next flight out of New York and back to Madison to save my favorite quadraped from the bitter clutches of a persnickety women. Lucky for the both us, (cat and myself), my old lady was only slightly kidding and Squirrel nervously maintained good health until my return. But man-o-man, you bet your ass she was listening and mad as hell when I got home. It took her a good month to love me again. That's old news, but you get the point. I'm attached.
In recent news, she has been licking herself, sleeping on random furniture, and biting my feet when I pass in socks.
Stay tuned for further updates!
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I've decided to ring in my first quarter-century with some new technology: a blog. Legitimized by gamers, pervs, and emo-kids everywhere, the idea of blogging has been slowly gnawing at my burgeoning ego for months now. And here I sit, fattening myself with Cheez-its™ and stolen gourmet chocolates in front of my computer, retelling stories of heroic feats of greatness and superhuman-ness.
That said, let us discuss my reasons for blogging, the first of which was my twenty-fifth birthday party. Much as Jesus lived the better part of his first twenty-some years, outside of birth, in relative anonymity, I have as well. When the only son of God (as the Christians put it) decided to make his presence public, he started healing the blind with an open-handed smack to the forehead, and turning water into wine - getting more than one Betty toasted, I would wager. Thus, in a much less inspired way I have decided to make my own life public, (as Jimminy Christ did), for those who wish to know about it. I, however, have chosen a much less strenuous medium, a blog; as opposed to miracles. But any-who, back to the party.
For those of you who were there, congratulations, you will be remembered in the tomes of history for your wisdom, charity, and down-right awesomeness. For those of you who were not there - I hope you all trip on something and get a nasty scrape. As far as the party goes, on a fun-ness scale rated by its crazy/sweetness, I would say that the mini-pub-crawl - rated on a scale of 1 to Public Displays of Affection featuring Penetration - was a rousing success. I got sufficiently drunk, as did most of the party-go'ers, and I think as a result a couple of my peeps might have enjoyed some sorts of sexual pleasures. Good fun for everyone involved. Nothing too crazy, but just up my alley. Unlike Hey-zuess Chris-tus I don't require millions of Christians lavishing gifts upon eachother to ring in my big day; just a couple of friends, a butt-load of shots, and a pint of my flavourite lager.
The other spurning influence for my shiny new blog is based on jealousy. My best buddy from high-school has consistently beat me to the punch on every cool life adventure: college diploma, hip-ness, cool digs, and general over-all life sweetness. Plainly said: he generally does a lot of cool shit, and has recently expanded said 'cool shit' into writing a blog mostly conveying the high-points of that 'cool shit'. Thus, I am jealous and would like to trump him by possibly writing something infintely cooler and perhaps wiser than him. This will be tough, but I am hoping that if I just keep writing, churning out loads of babble, that I might spit out some little nugget of wisdom or hilarity that might lead to total world peace, or domination, depending on whose hands it might fall into.
Either way, it is my hope to write down some funny shit, tickle a funny bone somewhere, and call it a day. To my friends and family: I apologize in advance, there are definitely going to be some stories about you.
Until then enjoy the dick and fart jokes. Peace, love and creepy-ness
That said, let us discuss my reasons for blogging, the first of which was my twenty-fifth birthday party. Much as Jesus lived the better part of his first twenty-some years, outside of birth, in relative anonymity, I have as well. When the only son of God (as the Christians put it) decided to make his presence public, he started healing the blind with an open-handed smack to the forehead, and turning water into wine - getting more than one Betty toasted, I would wager. Thus, in a much less inspired way I have decided to make my own life public, (as Jimminy Christ did), for those who wish to know about it. I, however, have chosen a much less strenuous medium, a blog; as opposed to miracles. But any-who, back to the party.
For those of you who were there, congratulations, you will be remembered in the tomes of history for your wisdom, charity, and down-right awesomeness. For those of you who were not there - I hope you all trip on something and get a nasty scrape. As far as the party goes, on a fun-ness scale rated by its crazy/sweetness, I would say that the mini-pub-crawl - rated on a scale of 1 to Public Displays of Affection featuring Penetration - was a rousing success. I got sufficiently drunk, as did most of the party-go'ers, and I think as a result a couple of my peeps might have enjoyed some sorts of sexual pleasures. Good fun for everyone involved. Nothing too crazy, but just up my alley. Unlike Hey-zuess Chris-tus I don't require millions of Christians lavishing gifts upon eachother to ring in my big day; just a couple of friends, a butt-load of shots, and a pint of my flavourite lager.
The other spurning influence for my shiny new blog is based on jealousy. My best buddy from high-school has consistently beat me to the punch on every cool life adventure: college diploma, hip-ness, cool digs, and general over-all life sweetness. Plainly said: he generally does a lot of cool shit, and has recently expanded said 'cool shit' into writing a blog mostly conveying the high-points of that 'cool shit'. Thus, I am jealous and would like to trump him by possibly writing something infintely cooler and perhaps wiser than him. This will be tough, but I am hoping that if I just keep writing, churning out loads of babble, that I might spit out some little nugget of wisdom or hilarity that might lead to total world peace, or domination, depending on whose hands it might fall into.
Either way, it is my hope to write down some funny shit, tickle a funny bone somewhere, and call it a day. To my friends and family: I apologize in advance, there are definitely going to be some stories about you.
Until then enjoy the dick and fart jokes. Peace, love and creepy-ness
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