Friday, August 28, 2009

A blowhardy Mousebedaversary to you!

So a few weeks ago, my wife and I went to see Julie and Julia. Aside from some minor problems with the presentation, the movie was pretty good. In it, Amy Adams decides she's going to start blogging about her quest to cook every recipe in the Julia Child cookbook. Her blog leads her to (spoiler alert!) a happier life and a better understanding of who she is. Oh, and a book deal. Oh, and then that book got turned into a movie. This movie. True story.

I started this blog a year ago this week. I've written far fewer entries than Julie Powell, although I've had a less solidly defined goal than she did. I started writing because my boss, my best friend and my wife all told me to start writing within about 24 hours of each other. They told me to start writing about my horrible dating life, my horrible home life, my horrible job at adidas, whatever. Just start writing, and people will enjoy it. For the most part, they've been right. I know my friends enjoy my writing for the most part. Since I left adidas, I've written ten stories about my tenure there, which have gotten great responses from my former coworkers. I've even gotten my wife and John Cabral to write a few essays for me, which I enjoy because that means I have an excuse to write less.

I suppose the best thing to come out of this blog - a word that still makes me retch, by the way - is the stuff I've written about my family. A lot of families suck, but mine sucks in a way that entertains people. I've managed to take the experiences I had living with them and parlay them into a collection of pretty solid essays, and through that I've worked out a lot of anger that I was building up for years. The person who helped me the most with this was my wife. She's really great.

Before this turns into a cock sucking exhibition, here's the point of this entry: I'm a big enough narcissist that I think I could maybe turn Mousebed into something that could make me money. Over the next few months, I'm going to work my ass off trying to rewrite some of my older posts, taking them from 800 word essays and turning them into long form pieces. Maybe even chapters. I think I could seriously turn this thing into a book. I really feel like I could combine all the essays about my family into a few thousand words. I could take all of my exes and make them 15 or so pages in OpenOffice. Hell, I could write an entire book about my fears and neuroses.

What I need is an angle. Julie Powell used her love of Julia Child. What do I love that I could write about that could tie into each of my essays? Let's see, what do I do with my life? Work, play video games, listen to old episodes of Loveline, work, hang out with my wife and cat, listen to music, work. The only one of those things that might be even remotely interesting is my love of music. Nick Hornby already wrote High Fidelity, but I think I could maybe take this a different direction. Each of my themes - sad girl stories, gallows humor, brutal honesty - could be turned into about 60 pages each. Each of those 60 page chunks could then have music worked into them. Maybe a play list for each chapter? Not quite sure yet. I swear this all makes sense in my head, despite how much I'm rambling here.

In the coming weeks, I hope to have rewritten enough of my stuff to start posting some old stories, written with a more cohesive structure. I'm hoping you're willing to put up with me doing this, rerunning old material. If you're not, I suppose that'll be too bad. I'm going to limit myself to 2500 words per essay, as I expect this might turn out to be a little wordy. I'll also mix in some of my other projects, specifically some of my stand up material. I'm going to start rehearsing my stuff more, writing new material and I may even end up doing a few open mic nights.

In a final act of cocksuckery, I'd like to thank some people. To all my fantastic coworkers at adidas, thank you for not being the miserable pricks I wrote about. To my friends here in Los Angeles, thank you for actually reading this shit and giving me fairly instantaneous feedback regarding my work. And finally to all the people I'm still friends with from back in Massachusetts, where most of the horrible shit that happened to me actually happened, thank you for making me a better person. I love all of you. Except for my cat Peepopo - you can eat a bag of dicks.

Friday, August 21, 2009

Listen to me, I'll show you the light of the mind!

So I finally sat down with an audio recording program and fucking recorded myself talking. I'm a blowhard, I know, but please be kind enough to give it a listen and let me know what you like, don't like, et cetera. The file is a little over 11 minutes long. Please love me.

Friday, August 14, 2009

Knock, knock. Who's there? I dunno. I dunno who? No seriously, I don't have an end for this fucking joke.

Here are some half-formed jokes. They don't really have endings yet, but they look like they could be solid. Any input would be nice. Thanks again. I swear I'll write a real essay again someday.

Sex toys sometimes bother me. There's one I saw called the “Clone-a-Pussy.” What it does is it makes a mold of your girlfriend's vagina, and you can make your very own latex clones of her vagina in whatever medium you feel suits her. Latex, chocolate, hamburger meat, whatever. Now, this really creeps me out. Just imagine Jodie Foster stumbling onto a burlap sack full of pussy paperweights.

The lack of utility is what really gets to me. You can't even fuck this thing - that's what really creeps me out. I could see maybe if it had an attachment, like a tube you stuck on the end that was full of lube and stuff. That sort of makes sense. I figure then you can fuck your girlfriend when she's out of town. So you start going at it, but then you remember the time she left the butter dish uncovered and the cat got to it and there was a cat tongue-shaped groove in the butter. Then the mood is broken. Or, you could use it when she's not in the mood. That seems healthy, right? Just going at it in the other room, occasionally shouting, “Man, this is waaaaay better than the real thing!”

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You know, in every third retarded teen movie in the 80's there's a scene where the nerd goes on his first date, and his goofball buddy tells him to take her to the movies. Once there, he should buy a bucket of popcorn, cut a hole in the bottom and stick his dick through the hole. I suppose the thinking is that once his date reaches into the popcorn, she finds his salty, buttery cock and decides to go to town on it. This thought process fails on so many levels. First, and I suppose most importantly, when do you find time to cut the hole? Then, let's face it, this is basically sexual assault. Like, nothing you'd go to jail for, but expect to introduce yourself to your neighbors when you move to a new town. Most importantly, has this ever fucking worked? For anybody? I work at a movie theatre and I've picked up my fair share of popcorn buckets. Not a single one has had a cock-sized hole in the bottom. I did once find a bucket full of urine, left by a parent who decided that their movie-going experience was not to be interrupted by having to take their kid to the bathroom. This is already a dick move, but not throwing away your pee bucket is the icing on the asshole cake.

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I've always had trouble with dating. When I was in sixth grade, I was going to ask a girl out in science class. I wore my nicest pair of pants to school - green corduroys - because they made me look like hot shit. Before I could even begin talking to her, my pants fell down. Now I can't go on dates if I'm not wearing a belt. Before that, though, things were just as bad. In fourth grade, I went to my first boy-girl sleepover party. I was stoked. I didn't know exactly what to expect - it's not like nine year olds have tits or anything - but I knew if I played my cards right, I could at least kiss a girl, which I was hoping I could later parlay into a blowjob.

Late that night, we all decided to play spin the bottle. This was it, I thought. I'm going to kiss a girl, and like I said, hopefully score some oral. We sat in a circle, put the bottle in the middle, and selected the first person to spin. Before the bottle was spun, though, one rule was laid out. If the bottle lands on Josh, you don't have to kiss him. This was made worse by the fact that there was only one other guy at the party, and everybody knew - even in fourth grade - that he was gay.

Any ideas on how to end these jokes would be greatly appreciated. I'm turning to you, loyal Mousebed reader, to be funny where I simply cannot.

Friday, August 7, 2009

So a joke walks into a bar and,

NB: Anybody who knows me already knows I'm super-stoked about working on my stand up act. Once again, instead of actually writing an essay, here are some of the bits I've been working on. Hope you like them.

I fucking hate babies. Just hate them. The worst are the babies who wear the “hilarious” onesies. I saw one the other day that said “Back off daddy, her boobies are mine!” Great. You can't even piss in the toilet but you can cockblock your old man? What an asshole. Seriously though, this comes from the “cool parents.” Mom thinks it's adorable for their tow-headed kid to wear a dopey Mohawk, dad has the weird pierced ear even though he's 38 and he dresses the kid in a Ramones shirt. There's this place in Sherman Oaks that purports to be an “alternative kids boutique.” On the door, written in what can only be described as “kid font” is the phrase “PUNK LIVES!” Not anymore, it doesn't. Once that phrase is painted on the door of a store that sells clothes for three-year-olds, punk is officially dead, and you have killed it.

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I used to be an animal rights activist, back when I used to care about things. I used to care, then I stopped, and then I was happy. Weird how that works, right? Anyhow, back then I used to do a lot more drugs, and sometimes I have flashbacks. It always ends when I throw a bucket of paint on the cat and shout “FUR IS MURDER! FUR IS MURDER!”

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When I get my hair cut, I like to go to the gay neighborhood, because I assume they'll do a better job of cutting my hair than the fat unemployable chick down at the Fantastic Sam's. I extend this theory to clothing. I like going to the thrift stores on Santa Monica Blvd because I assume that if a gay guy used to own it, it has to be stylish. That's why my closet is full of leather train conductor hats and t-shirts that say “Boy's Town Bear Fest '97” (Alternate endings to this joke are “Bears Do It Better” and “Future Mrs. Timberlake.”)

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I grew up in the village of West Barnstable. Not the town, the village. You may ask yourself what the difference between a village and a town is. It's easy to remember - villages have idiots, while towns have drunks. If we lived in a town, I'd be embarrassed by my alcoholic dad, but instead, I'm embarrassed by my retarded mom.

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The place I grew up in had no black people. Like, at all. There were 200 people in my town and 190 of them were white and the other ten were Caucasian. I didn't meet any black people until college, and I didn't really hang out with any until afterwards. My first black friend was named Doug, and he had a lot of other black friends. It was pretty cool. He called me one day and invited me over to a barbecue at his place and told me to bring some beer. Now, I was used to hanging out with my honky-ass friends and going to their Graham Wellington-ass box socials, not barbecues with actual black folk. So when I get to the party with my six-pack of hefeweizen, I was shocked to find that it didn't fit in with the other beers in the fridge. Steel Reserve, Olde English, Colt 45, more Steel Reserve. About an hour into the party, somebody from the patio yelled “Who the fuck brought this shit?” Obviously he wasn't a fan of hefeweizen. I told him it was me, and that it was wheat beer. He told me that it smelled like a gorilla's dick, and that my new nickname would be Gorilla Dick. Now, when you're the only white guy at a bar with eight black guys, there are certain advantages to having a nickname like Gorilla Dick. Women would always ask where I got my unique name, and I'd offer to show them. By which I mean buying them a shitty beer.

So yeah, there's some more stuff. What did you like? What didn't you like? Any feedback would be great. Thanks for putting up with this shit, and hopefully something noteworthy will come out of it. Have a good week.