squidbag

Zesty!

Fast food is a major part of the American experience, something we farm out to other countries like TV, jeans, and Disney.  Even so, I know people who refuse to eat fast food, and I understand why.  I also know people who've lived on the stuff, and I have certainly had more than my share.  Especially recently, what with a couple of recent road trips.  It's a little scary, though.  Every time I think the fast food industry has topped itself, it comes up with another triple-stacker, extra gooey cheese bomb to shoot right up your ass and save time.  A new pinnacle has been reached recently with Sonic's Frito Chili Cheese Wrap and Tots value meal for $2.99.  In case you were confused, the only actual food here is the wrap, which made of flour.  Everything else is Fritos and fake cheese food with chili (?) crammed into a tiny space and passed off as lunch.  This will damage your large intestine and self-image, which is one of the many reasons fast food is so fucking scary.  And as if a flour tortilla stuffed with fucking chips wasn't enough for you, here are some deep-fried compacted potato shreds on the side.  Enjoy!

Sauces at these places are starting to bother me a little.  Of course, there's the ever-present Ketchup with it's urban legends of cockroach parts and spider eggs, but accompanying this now are mayo, light mayo, mustard, Tabasco, and various salsas.  Taco Bell's sauces flirt with you, but have basically just been watered-down hot sauces for years.  Arby's sauce bothers me a little, inasmuch as it sounds like something that might get left on you by a gigolo.  It makes no effort to tell you what it even is.  It's Arby's sauce.  Good luck, fucker.  At least that's been around for awhile.  What about this shit Burger King serves now in a container just marked "Zesty?"  An adjective is not a name for a sauce.  It's just scary.

Speaking of Burger King, what the hell is going on with fast food breakfast?  What hack team of scientists asserted that we were undernourished in the AM, and thus needed much bigger food?  How else can you account for the disgusting Enormous Omelet Sandwich?  Or Hardee's Loaded Breakfast Burrito?  Was something wrong with breakfast that would actually fit in a person's mouth?  What species do they test these new products on?  Apes?  "Apes really love the new Fat-Ass Double Meal Morning Wrap from Slider's, and you will, too!"  And what the fuck is up with McGriddles?  We failed some kind of test when we accepted the McRib, folks.  Now they think we'll swallow anything.  And I guess we will, at that.  I bet the Russians don't eat the fucking McRib.

Chick-Fil-A, believe it or not, scares me the least of these places - I've just about decided I like them.  They support good public programming, have playgrounds and good hiring practices, give everyone Sundays off.  The food's non-mysterious because they know that you already know what the secret ingredient is over at Chick-Fil-A: Christ.  There's a little bit of the blood of the lamb in every Original Chicken Sandwich, and don't you forget it, you heathen fucks. 

Wendy's is fairly inoffensive - you can get a baked potato there, but they give you "buttery spread" to put on it.  It's not butter - it's buttery.  So's a biscuit, assholes!  But a baked spud?  That's honest, at least.  KFC serves this weird whipped mush that's supposed to have potatoes in it, but I saw Irish people picketing last week over there.  (And what the hell is this "bowl of every fucking thing" they're hawking now?)  McFood still dumps zesty meat sauce in their fries, while Arby's peddles "potato cakes" that resemble neither potatoes or cakes, really, and are just an important vehicle for the most important component of a fast food meal - after fat, of course - salt!  Why, if you haven't gotten three times as much as your heart can take per meal from the fat and salt groups, you must be a goddamn socialist or something; safe bet you ain't eatin' fast food, I can tell you that!

Now that you're thirsty, you can order something to drink off the Wendy's drink menu, which recently underwent some changes.  Now, 20 oz. of fluid is a small, 32 is a medium, and, having eliminated the Biggie (like this guy did), the large is 42 fucking ounces, which will kill you.  The idea, actually, is that you take it with you and suck on it all day and by three o'clock you will be enjoying tepid icy backwash.  But it'll be a value, goddammit!

Turtle Sex

Praise for David T. KIrkpatrick, and his very useful book, Aquatic Turtles.  Without reading this book, I would never have known that Kevin, the turtle we rescued from the street was in fact a Yellow-Blotched Map Turtle, which are proliferate in this area.  The book even says "Pensacola and Escambia Bay."  And it describes his somewhat suspicious and anti-social nature pretty well, too.  Apparently, that's genetic, and not him just being shell-shocked (you're welcome, Jesse and Cayce) from being hit by the car.  As useful as this book is, it would never have gotten it's own blog entry if not for page 79.

Page 79, in the chapter on breeding, has the following passage (with some of my own addenda, of course):   "Male turtles will occasionally extend their penises (because they can), especially during the breeding season (because, after all, to everything there is a season), upon being placed into water after handling or sometimes during handling (ooh.).  Some keepers upon seeing this behavior for the first time become rather alarmed and worried that the turtle is suffering from some type of intestinal prolapse.  (Or, perhaps, that they have just been raped by a turtle.)  The turtle will usually rapidly retract his penis if disturbed (typical of males of any species - try not knocking once in a while), while an animal suffering from a prolapse will not be able to do so (and instead will engage in a silent, reptillian scream of agony)." 

Then he actually says: "Observing a turtle extruding his penis is, of course, a very good indication of the sex of that particular turtle."

David T. Kirkpatrick: Devoted herpetologist, engaging writer, master of the obvious.

Dave Cockrum, 1943-2006

Dave Cockrum, without whom you would not have most of the really interesting characters in the X-Men, has died from complications with diabetes.  He was 63 years old.  He was also the creator of the Futurians, also from Marvel, and artist on DC's Legion of Super-Heroes (now a cartoon) but his best known work is on the revitalization of the X-Men, who few people realize were tanking as a title until Dave and Len Wein got this bold new direction going in 1975.  The title had actually been cancelled for five years, and Giant Size X-Men #1 was created to jumpstart the X-Men, linking the old with the new and introducing Storm, Colossus, Nightcrawler & Thunderbird, all of whom Cockrum co-created.  The soon to be ubiquitous Wolverine was also added to the team at this point, having only appeared in Hulk #180 & 181 before that.  The picture used here is of Nightcrawler in an alternate dimension ruled by space pirates (kind of) and is from the 1986(?) limited series, which Cockrum both wrote and drew, and is still among my top 20 most fun comic stories to read.

The Squidbag salutes Dave Cockrum with adamantium claws, a prehensile tail, and by crashing a spacecraft into Jamaica Bay.

Atlanta, 11/22/06

We are in Atlanta right now, for Matt's birthday and the Thanksgiving that will be ensuing on the morrow.  It has been a nice vacation so far, with much good hanging out.  I don't expect that will change.  First and foremost, I'd like all of you to join me and mine in wishing Matt Olson a happy 30th birthday.  He is officially back in my demographic now, and it's nice to have him back.  Some of you are no doubt thinking, "What's so fucking special about Matt?  Why does his birthday get mentioned here every year?"  Well, fuck you, Matt's the shit and happy birthday Matt.  We saw his birthday clock in at midnight on the dot while smoking Partagas Naturales and drinking port.  There was a gentle rain and talk of the past and future.  You can't beat it, really.

Thanksgiving is tomorrow, and this will be the 1st one I haven't spent with the Madison crew since we were still the Sarasota crew, and the year was 1995.  I will miss the Madisonians a lot, but I have an additional feeling that Turkey Day here will be kick-ass.  Regardless, (as I flip my scarred mental half dollar once again) I will be thinking of those I am not seeing, and those I cannot see, for one reason or another.  I may have to get a 40 oz. to pour out on the ground.  Actually, the further I get from 1995, the more sense pouring out 40 ounces of malt liquor seems to make, dead homies or not.

I'd like to take this opportunity to give a shout-out to Oxford Comics and Games, here in the ATL.  Matt took me there for a birthday related shopping (trying to avoid the word "spree") spree (fuck) last night, and I got many hefty wads of comic goodness.  I'd also like to send out eleven-day belated thanks to everyone who sent gifts and cards and emails and phone calls and complex voodoo curses around my birthday.  How lazy is that, yeah?  Thanking all of you on my damn blog, collectively, without mentioning names.  That'll teach you to be considerate.

Finally, a story (to make the above graphic choice make sense).  When we got into Atlanta on Monday night (actually the wee hours of Tuesday morning) we hauled our crap into Cayce & Matt's downstairs room where Burroughs the Cat sometimes lives.  C was worried about her cat allergy kicking her ass, I drove my ass around Atlanta, GA at 3 am looking for anti-allergy meds.  After walking in on an herb-burning West African chanting cleansing ceremony of some kind at one point, I found myself at a Chevron station with an automatic door that would not open.  The clerk had been mopping, and came to unlock it for me.  It didn't open.

"Wait for just a minute, my friend."

Still nothing.

"Perhaps take a step back and then forward."

Nope.

"Could you move from side to side, my friend?"

"Are you fucking with me?"

"No, I don't understand why the door is not open.  You are clearly standing right there."

Which is the funniest thing I have heard anyone say in quite some time.  You are clearly standing right there.  Yes.  Thanks very much.

Have a happy Pilgrim-based holiday, all.

Sonofabitch, a 75 Question Meme!

...and me with insomnia, too.  Let's see what we've got...

1.The phone rings. Who do you want it to be?
Offers of money, or messages from beyond the grave.  Or Jesus with a pizza, maybe.  Or Ian McKellan.

2. When shopping at the grocery store, do you return your cart?
Mostly, no.  I will at least get it out of traffic, though.  Actually, I mostly don't use a cart.  I like those little Heidi basket things, because they restrict my purchases.

3. In a social setting, are you more of a talker or a listener?
Both.  Though others probably wish I'd take a breath now and again.

4. Do you take compliments well?
What's that supposed to mean?

5. Are you an active person?
At what?  Okay, no.

6. If abandoned alone in the wilderness, do you survive?
By channeling that SAS guide and Matt Olson, yes.  Also, spite carves a path.

7. Do you like to ride horses?
Yeah, as long as there's a carriage and a driver attached to them and they have on horse diapers.

8. Did you ever go to camp as a kid?
Fuck no.  I worked as a kid.  Which is why my kids' summers are going to suck.  "When I was your age..."

9. What was your favorite game as a kid?
Crass manipulation.  Or soccer.

10. If a sexy person was pursuing you, but you knew he/she was married would you?
If everything were different, and I was not committed myself, anything is within the realm of possibility.

11. Are you judgemental?
Oh, hell yeah.  Shit, I don't like the way you spelled "judgmental."

12. Could you date someone with different religious beliefs than you?
Everyone's religous beliefs are different than mine.

13. Do you like to pursue or be pursued?
I prefer to pursue.  At between 60 or 80 mph, along a crowded sidewalk.

14. Use three words to describe yourself:
Fuck you, fourteen.

15. If you had to choose, would you rather be deaf or blind?
What a stupid fucking question.  And this is only #15?

16. Are you continuing your education?
Yeah, eventually.

17. Do you know how to shoot a gun?
At who and what kind?

18. If your house was on fire, what would be the first thing you tried to save?
Lives.

19. How often do you read books?
This is keeping me from my book.

20. Do you think more about the past, present or future?
At present, the present.  I am millstoned by the present.

21. What is your favorite children's book?
Zen Shorts.  Unless Bone counts.

22. Have you kissed any of your Blog friends?
I don't have any fucking blog friends.

23. How tall are you?
About this high.  Nobody throws me off rides anymore.

24. Where is your ideal house located?
Gotham City.

25. Boxers, briefs, thongs, panties, or grannies?
Boxers when applicable.  Anything that looks uncomfortable isn't sexy on others, though.

26. Last person you talked to?
Do the other voices count?

27. Have you ever taken pictures in a photo booth?
Yeah, I like to wait and snag the ones of other people, too.  True.

28. When was the last time you were at Olive Garden?
You writing a book for the Olive Garden people, or what?  Q #28, meet Q #15.

29. What are your keys on your key chain for?
Jabbing me sharply in the leg when I fall asleep on them.

30. Where was the furthest place you traveled today?
A bookstore.

31. Where is your current pain at?
Fuck, what a question.  Where is your grammar at?  Pain don't hurt.  Walk it off.

32. Do you like mustard?
On what?

33. Do you prefer to sleep or eat?
I like to sleepeat.  I am a somnagastrologist.

34. Do you look like your mom or dad?
I look like your mom.  I don't really know what that means, but...

35. How long does it take you in the shower?
"Streets of Laredo" - 3 minutes, 33 seconds.  No seriously, though - to do what?

36. Can you do a split?
Yeah, some bananas, a little iced cream - delicious.

37. What movie do you want to see right now?
Darren Aronofsky being fucked to death by badgers on crack.  Crack badgers.  Ass to ass!

38. Do you put lotion on your dog or cats?
Ehhh...who wrote these?

39. What did you do for New Year's?
I don't know, that was almost a year ago - I have this conversation every goddamn year - the one about LAST year.

40. Do you think "The Grudge" was scary?
I don't know.

41. What was the cause of your last accident?
Jesus.  What kind?  I moved to Pensacola 'cause I was temporarily stupid, does that count?

42. How much money do you have on you right now?
None!  And only a man whose ass is narrow can get down these steps.

43. What are you drinking?
Diet Vault.

44. Was your mom a cheerleader?
Your mom was my cheerleader.

45. What's the last letter of your middle name?
Y.  Why?

46. Who did you vote for on American Idol?
My whole ass.

47. How many hours of sleep do you get a night?
Ha-ha.  I piss on your "hours."

48. Do you like Carebears?
Yeah, I like that one - what's his name - Fuck You Bear, that's right.  The one shooting a bird on his chest.

49. What do you buy at the movies?
Fucking tickets, asshole.

50. Do you know how to play poker?
Yeah, but I got no poker face.  I get cards and say, "I'm fucked."

51. Do you wear your seat belt?
I wear James Dean's seatbelt.

52. What do you wear to sleep?
Whatever I'm wearing when I fall asleep.

53. Anything big ever happen in your hometown?
I'm from Nashville, TN - it's a matter of perspective, I guess.

54. How many meals do you eat a day?
Mine or other people's?

55. Is your tongue pierced?
Yes - wait, no.

56. Do you trust the news reported by the local paper?
No.  I don't believe anything anyone tells me.

57. What's you favorite NFL team?
This year?  Either the Bears or the Colts.

58. Do you like funny or serious people better?
Funny.

59. Ever been to Vegas?
Why you gotta bring that town up?

60. Did you eat a cookie today?
No.

61. Do you use cuss words in other languages?
Yep.  I am a fan of blue words in any language.

62. Do you steal or pay for your music downloads?
Yes.

63. Do you hate chocolate?
Only Sexual Chocolate.

64. What do you and your parents fight about the most?
I only fight with other peoples' parents.

65. Is anyone mad at or irritated with you right now?
Oh, I would imagine so.

66. Do you open presents on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day?
Santa can blow me.

67. What's your favorite preparation for eggs?
Cooked.

68. If you could have any job (assuming you have the skills) what would it be?
Writer.

69. Are you easy to get along with?
Yeah, unless you step out of line.

70. What is your favorite time of day?
When my mind is clear.  Those 20 seconds rock.

71. Who was your best girlfriend/boyfriend?
Me.

72. Who do you hate?
Heh.  Hah.  Oh...you know what?  Never mind.

73. Would ever date your first love again?
She's dead.  I'm a fucking buzzkill, aren't I?

74. Do you have a girlfriend/boyfriend?
Well, kind of.

75. Current mood?
Fuck you, seventy-five.

Escape From Noise

I finally understand this song.

Do you have any idea how hard it actually is to get the hell away from noise?  I am a father of two with a precocious five-year-old who talks non-stop (and when he's not talking, he's singing or making noise, which I also did as a child, pretty much constantly, so I understand the impulse) and a teething five-month old who, when she drops out of good moods goes directly into near-constant whines punctuated by Satan noises that would make Germans clear their collective throat.  I am, of course, being a big pussy, because my wife deals with this every day.  I don't think it would bother me quite as much if it weren't for some other factors.  I am supposed to be getting some stuff done and my house together to go on a trip, and we've been discussing Xmas gifting, and that's all fine, but I can't get anything done on any of it, between laundry and dishes, and trying to be good dad and also dimming the lights in my brain occasionally.  On top of all of that, there's the fact (gritting teeth until stars pop in my eyes) that this house still has not sold, and likely will not during the holidays, and Evan's goddamn fucking suicide and the horribleness of it all keeps busting into my regularly unscheduled train of thought and tear-assing around like a drag racer on meth, fucking up the furniture.  I am close to cracking open my head to remove the badness.  In fact, I don't think that I shall have to.  I think that my brains will swell until the bones in my head fracture out from their current Pangeatic state, re-structuring until they become little skull continents kind of floating over my brain, which will then continue to swell until I end up looking like one of those asshead aliens from fucking Star Trek.

Of course, just getting that down helps.  I'm fine now.  Really.

This is therapy.  And you all read it.

World's Toughest Idiot

According to the AP, a would-be kidnapper in Wichita, Kansas, shot himself in the groin during a kidnapping attempt.  The 23-year-old and his two accomplices, both in their late teens to early twenties (though I'm certainly not making any judgments about people in that demographic), were attempting to kidnap a fourth guy over a dispute (just to up the ante in our cultural quicksand regarding violent crimes that happen over property) over stereo speakers.  Kidnapping?  What the fuck are we, Iraqi?  What happened to just knocking someone around with your fist during an argument?  Now we kidnap your ass?  And then what - ransom him for the speakers?  Picture that note, sub-literate and cobbled together from letters clipped out of Metal Hammer and Mini-Trucker magazines.  Who do you send it to?

Then, the head moron of Moron Gang shoots at the guy, misses, and thrusts (heh) his gat into the waistband of his pants (like he'd seen on TV) and shoots himself in the ball.  The left one.  This, like the "holding your gun sideways like a gangsta so that in addition to fucking up your aim you eject hot brass into your other arm, clothing or colleagues" is an excellent reason not to do stupid shit with your firearms.  Upon shooting himself in the crotch, he cringes (you would, too) and the gun goes off again, shooting him a second time in the thigh.  This is when you hope the intended kidnapee was not so overcome with hysterical laughter that he was unable to escape the clutches of these terrible, terrible kidnappers.  Finally, the leader of their gang (who must have had his Ovaltine that day) WALKS his ass to the nearest emergency room, probably going, "Ungh.  Aaagh.  No, I'm fine.  I'm good.  Damn.  Argh.  Shit." and leaving little pools of blood on the sidewalk amidst the lunchtime traffic and giggling of his cohorts.

Hippocratic oath aside, you can envision ER attendants double-taking and asking, "Sorry.  You did what exactly?"  As they collect friends and other patients around to hear the story.  In fact, it was probably a morale boost for the whole rest of the hospital.  "You think you've got problems, Mister Big-Time Carpentry Accident?  What about the fool in examination room 8 who shot himself in the groin a couple of times in the attempted commission of a felony earlier today?"

Finally, I am accepting any and all variations in the comments area on the "I'd give my left nut" theme.  Submit early and often.

Walgreen's: Last Stand

Last week I went on a week-long vacation with my wife and two kids.  We stayed in one of those extended-stay-type places with a kitchenette.  Actually, this was more just kitchenesque, or a kitchenette-ette, it was so small.  If you had swung a dead cat in it, assuming you are of the dead cat swinging inclination, the cat would not even have been within the bounds of the space over half of the time.  It was like the carpet just stopped, and there was this stove top and midget fridge.  Anyway, the trip included a wedding and rehearsal dinner, a birthday, and various social engagements.  Throughout all of this, it began to dawn on me: Walgreen's fucking has everything.  If I'm ever trapped in a zombie movie and they've got us down to our last few, I want to be stuck in a Walgreen's.  They had pantyhose, a cell phone charger, toothpaste, clippers, various snacks and medicines, bedding, camping gear.  They had TVs and DVDs, foodstuffs and drinks, books and toys.  I know what you're thinking: "Wal-Mart has guns.  I'd way rather be in a Wal-Mart when the zombies come."  Two sound-offs to that shit: One, picture yourself defending a huge Super Wal-Mart with like, six people from a parking lot full of the undead, and Two, try to imagine the sheer terror of the garden section with no electricity in the dead of night while it's infested with flesh-eating gravewalkers.  The smell of sevendust and rotting flesh would make your stomach into an apple popover.  Nope, it's Walgreen's for me, thanks.  It's a nice, defensible set-up, what with one back door, one front door and the pharmacy window, and it has, as I mentioned, everything you'd need until the helicopters come at the end, or you construct some sort of MacGyver-style weapon out of propellant, PVC, and flaming tampons and make the end run for one of the family vans in the parking lot.  While you were hunkered down, though, I'm thinking a Walgreen's is the way to go.

(The Squidbag did not accept any money from the Walgreen's corporation, or their parent company, Zombie Defense, LLC.  This is not a paid promotional endorsement.)

The Explanation Fantasy

The current fantasy goes like this:

There is a featureless white room, like that Matrix reality before the guns come whizzing by.  There are a couple of comfy wingback chairs, and a small cabinet-like table with an ashtray on the top.  Pacing in the space/room, is my friend, the recently deceased Evan Garfinkel, anxiously smoking an untipped Chesterfield and dressed to the nines in his Demonic performing ensemble, with the red shirt and black suit.  He is waiting for me.  The door opens and I walk in.  I am in black as usual, collar to kicks, but since this is the fantasy, I get to wear the three-quarter length coat with all the pockets I can't find in real life.  I give Evan a big hug, and sitting in one of the chairs, I produce, trim and light a tightly-wrapped black Cuban cigar of the sort that take a couple of hours to smoke properly.  Opening the cabinet, I pour two highballs of something ridiculously old and Scottish, and sit back in my chair, pushing the hair out of my face.  I sip and make the whiskey face, put my glass down without a coaster, and look him dead in the eyes and ask, "What the fuck, man?"

And then I sit and listen for a couple of hours, as there is that much cigar to smoke, while he explains himself, colorfully and with much digression.  That would be the usual thing.  We finish the bottle, and the room is hazy and spins with drink and smoke and truth, which is typically the most intoxicating quantity anyway.  He would tell me why.  To my satisfaction.  And how, with so many who would be hurt and left behind loving now only a memory.  He would explain where his humor had gone, since it apparently abandoned him in the most crucial moment.  I would sit quietly and listen to it all, interjecting only occasionally, and not rushing the stutter, a skill I had developed exclusively for Evan in the first place.

These are the times when I wish I did believe, for those of you in the cheap seats, for anyone who had formulated the wrong ideas about me.  I am filled with broken glass.  Again.  This sucks, and a respite would be nice, or failing that, an explanation that meets the criteria.  It's not going to happen - but that is the current fantasy.

Just having a drink with my friend.

No Focus

The most observant of you will by now have noticed the new Evan photo album there on the side.  The remainder of you - well, try and keep up.  A lot of the shots are cribbed from the Demons website, with a couple sent to me by Jen and Vini himself.  Send pictures, and I'll post them in there.  Promise.  I also wanted to say that I am edified by the number of visits here within the past few days - 560 at one point in a 48 hour period is a marked increase in traffic for this blog.  And all of them doing searches or following links concerning Evan Garfinkel.  How could he not have noticed all of us while he was around?  I can't help but think that if he were able to see the comments, Eric's entry, and the various other testimonies cropping up here and there, he would reconsider his final decision.

Thanks to everyone who called while we were on the road in Nashville, either wanting to talk about Ev or just wishing me a happy 32nd birthday.  I did have a good birthday, in spite of things, and spent the day hanging out with C, my kids, and Brian and Kate, who popped into the Nash at no small expense to celebrate with me.  We had lunch with Shannon Hamlett, (whose b-day is the 18th, folks) looked at art, talked to Matt, ate African food, bought books and toys, and basically had a few much-needed laughs.  While we were in Nashville, Kat & Dale got married (Congratulations, guys!), my mom had a birthday, we hit the Science museum, and we fielded a (too low) offer on our house.  Saw a lot of people a lot less than I'd like, but there's only so many hours in the day, and when you're spending most of them with a teething baby along for the ride, your options are somewhat limited.

So, it's nineish on a Monday, and I'm sitting in my home office with one kid singing and drawing pictures, and the other making gurgly noises from her chair.  We didn't get unpacked until about seven hours ago.  I'd like to also thank the lovely Lyla Dove for taking care of our home while we were away, assiduously cleaning up bird corpses from the porch and bringing in the mail.

This would also perhaps be the place to mention the three serious conversations I've had lately about moving to Costa Rica for a year or two.  I think I'm going to go slowly get ready for work, now.  One week, and then it's almost a week off in Atlanta with Cayce & Matt.  The "holidays" are HERE.