Dog Hungry

You ever meet a dog that is so loving and trusting and allows strangers to rub its belly? They're the best, right? Well, the reason they're so openly full of love is that nobody ever fucked with them. Nobody taunted them or beat them or neglected to feed them. They're not tough, but who gives a shit about toughness when you've got rainbows and birthday cake.




On the other hand, have you ever looked into the eyes of a rescue dog that's been abused or neglected? The darting eyes and submissive posture. They've been fucked with, and because dogs aren't psychologically resilient, a lot of them have been permanently ruined. Breaks my fucking heart.

In conclusion, dogs are awesome.

Hang In There, Man!

UPDATE: I'm doing better now, eating rice and pretzels and Gatorade on my couch, watching TV, wearing sweatpants. Although, I recently found out that I'm hypersensitive to Vitamin D, which caused excessive urination, nausea, and nearly a sudden bout of vomitus. I only took 800IU of that shit and it fucked me up! Don't you see why I hate my body now? I've regressed from the fun-loving fatass of my teen years, to the anxious skinny sickling I am today. And now I hate Vitamin D, but Vitamin D doesn't even care.

Moving on to more health related crap, because that's all I've been thinking about lately...




Last week I had a blood test to make sure everything was okay, and all my levels came back fine. Went to the GI doctor today and he says that I have some post-viral gastroparesis that should go away with time and probiotics. Scheduled a gallbladder ultrasound on Sept. 15. Got a ride home from a taxi driver who smelled just like you'd think he'd smell. Getting cold feet about LA, but I'm in too deep at this point. Plus, when I think about spending another winter in Chicago, I get really sad, really fast.

I'm anxious and I need a hug.

I've Lost 10 Pounds on the "What the Fuck is Wrong with my Innards?" Diet

I'm writing this right now because I am scared. My health is really bad right now, and I need to express what's been going on. I'm not gonna go into the gory details, but I will be stating the basic facts of my body's decline. So bear with me on another voyage to the Nest of Grump...




My stomach has been fucked up in different ways since July 4th, when I gave myself gastritis. That night, I foolishly ate some chicken drenched in a cayenne- pepper-rich BBQ sauce, topped it off with some chips and spicy salsa, and promptly went to bed, letting all that crap disintegrate the lining of my already sensitive stomach.

That fucked me up for a week with nausea and heartburn. Stomach acid made its way back into my mouth, giving me the pleasant taste of cat shit mixed with pennies. I ate soy ice cream, drank coconut water (which I discovered is a natural laxative...cocksuck!), and munched on crackers. I lost a little weight, but I managed to get by.

By the end of the month, my stomach was on the mend and I was feeling optimistic about my semi-full recovery. I also had several creative projects (playing drums in a band, re-editing a Gandhi trailer, projecting a video collage for a big ol' gay dance party) that made me feel ambitious for the first time in awhile.

Then, on the 8th of August, I felt the first symptoms of a stomach virus that's still fucking with my system as of today. Extreme nausea, cold sweats, low-grade fever. I rode the worst of it out for 3 days with nothing more than Gatorade, ginger ale, and herbal tea. Started feeling better on the 4th day, so I added some soy milk. Mistake. More nauseous fun time. Anxiety and panic attacks ahoy!




By the 6th day, I felt good enough to go without Dramamine, although I was on edge, interpreting any stomach gurgle as a potential regression to the hellish first 3 days. But I made it through the night with a bucket and old linens beside my bed to contain a potential toxic episode.

7th day. Felt better. Added some soy protein drink to my diet, with some Ensure as well.

8th day. Weighed myself. 173lbs. I've lost 7 pounds. Panic attack. Recovered in about an hour and tried to make myself eat something solid. Almost threw up. Back to sipping ginger ale.

Today is the 11th day. I've eaten some crackers and some applesauce, along with a soy protein shake. I weighed myself before I took a shower and the scale read 170 pounds. That's the lowest I've ever weighed as an adult and it freaked me out.




I need to gain weight, but I can't rush it or else I'll just puke it up. I've had diarrhea 4 times in 6 days now. I have no confidence in my stomach, and I'm losing strength. My anxiety is through the roof, and to top it off, I'm going to LA to find an apartment on the 31st. I need to get better by then, or my plans will be derailed.

I feel like I'm stretched to the limit emotionally and physically. I know I'll get over this sickness eventually, but the future seems out of reach because the present is horrific.




I feel better just by writing all this down. I'm seeing a regular doctor tomorrow morning, and a GI doctor on the 26th. We'll have a lot to talk about. Meanwhile, I'm watching The Simpsons, Futurama, Roseanne, Everybody Hates Chris, and My Name is Earl. Sitcoms and cartoons kill time like nothing else. And that's what I'm reduced to, killing time while I try to keep food down.

I hate my genetics, my Jewish immune system, and I wholeheartedly renew my absolute hatred for my digestive system. Fuck you all. I should dig up Andre the Giant and make you suck his dick!

I'll post an update soon...

Viva Racismo!

Oops...

Oh, Indeed Mr. Omar

Saw this picture of Michael K. Williams, aka Omar Little from The Wire, and all my memories from the show came flooding back. I'm not usually one to publicly proclaim the genius of a particular TV show, because I don't enjoy hearing about people's TV boners, but The Wire is the best show ever made. And Omar is the most bad-ass character ever created. He's cooler than the Fonz and has more heart than Braveheart.

If you haven't seen the show, watch it now. Maybe you haven't gotten around to it, or perhaps you think it's just some shitty urban-police drama. Well, what if I told you that Omar Little is a gay gangster that robs drug dealers, and gets grumpy if he doesn't have a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios in the morning? Yeah.


"The cheese stands alone."

"I robs drug dealers."

I'm Sick Of It

After my latest stint in illness prison, I got to thinking about how many times I've come out the other side of sickness a little weaker physically, but with more perspective on my mortality.





Now, I wasn't gonna die, nor do I believe I will ever die, but when I get sick, I think about how I wouldn't have made it if not for medical science, antibiotics, and anatomical research. If I had lived in the 19th century, I would have died at 22 from unclean drinking water or a bad case of candle-hand. But I'm alive in the present day, so the point is moot.





The mind/body connection is fascinating to me. I usually get anxious at the start of an illness, observing the indicators of imminent despair and panicking about how long I'll be fucked. I purchase the provisions I'll need once the symptoms go full blast, and worry about whether or not I'll need to see a doctor. But once the sickness takes hold of my body, I accept it. Like most things, the buildup is worse than the event. All I have to do is medicate myself so I'm not terribly uncomfortable, and just wait. That part has become easier over the years, and I wonder if that's how old people cope. Health-crisis-cruise-control kicks in automatically after having been through enough rough shit to know what to expect.





Sometimes I think about the number of weeks I'm out of service in a typical year, and how many more sick days I'll spend during my lifetime, knowing that I'll get through them all somehow, until I don't. It's rather amazing, the amount of time spent nursing this carcass back to health.

But then, as a typical neurotic Jew, I worry about my body's elasticity. My eyes are getting worse, same with my stomach, but my brain is getting sharper with experience. Or at least more adept at pattern recognition and getting a better grip of what to expect. That's the trade off, I guess. People seek the advice of the village elder for a reason, and it's not to admire his wrinkles.





Lately, I've been imagining a scenario where I've been shot and about to die. When I think about how I'd like my last moments to go, what would comfort me is the presence of a person, any person, whose eyes I could look deeply into, hold their hand, and let go. I'd reach out to anyone at that moment. It could be my worst enemy, or a bum, or the guy who shot me. Any human connection would be welcome.

I have a fear of dying alone in a car or having a heart attack late at night on the sidewalk, without anyone around, clutching my chest with one hand, reaching out with the other for contact. That's probably why people believe in Jesus - so they won't have to worry about dying alone, even if they do. Once again, the buildup is worse than the event itself. They assuage their fears about death by believing that the Magical Emperor of Sky World will take their hand and guide them into paradise.




What was I talking about? Oh yeah, I'm Jewish and I had bronchitis last week.

Built Cosby

I received the lovely gift of bronchitis via our lord and savior Bill Cosby the other day. What a generous man. I feel guilty for all the things he's given me. All I do is take take take. So I've decided to throw some love his way. Ladies and gentlemen, Built Cosby...





...It's been weird around here. The antibiotics I'm taking are making my farts smell like dead chimps fucking in a sewer. And I've been sleeping at least 10 hours a night. And my energy level has been fluctuating hourly - from "Yeah! I'm gonna do sit-ups while researching cold fusion!" to "Nurse! Put them sweatpants on my legs. I'm cold."

I'm tired. More later.

The Larry Chronicles: Part II

II.

Looking back, that was the turning point in our relationship. Call me a fuddy duddy, but I don't think it's cool to shake your dick at a Rastafarian. I'll admit that his behavior was often unpredictable, but the things he ended up doing were usually harmless and whimsical. For example, when we were staying at a hotel in Atlanta, he rubbed chocolate syrup all over the TV and complained to the front desk that BET was coming in blurry. We almost died laughing when they sent some poor schmuck to replace the soiled television.

But boner exposure? That's some gross pervert shit. People get locked up for less, and Larry's not built for prison. He's barely built for bookstores.

The Larry Chronicles: Part I

I.

Larry and I used to do everything together. At night, we dreamed about the same things. We hated Puerto Ricans and mustard because they both ruined hot dogs. On the weekends, we would play Battleship with dread-locked homeless men by the lake. Well, we played Battleship while they played chess. They gave us shit about it one time. Called us "fuckin' idiots" for playing a strategically inferior board game. Larry responded by pulling out his rock-hard boner. They received his gesture poorly, and we had to surrender a perfectly good Battleship set.

Prologue to The Larry Chronicles

Hello all. I've been quite sick in the nose/head/throat/body department for a few days now. I kinda burned myself out with 3 consecutive nights of partying over the weekend, which is something I rarely do, setting the table for an oozing virus to feast inside my skull. I usually follow a personal code of never doing the same thing two nights in a row, because something that was splendid one night almost never carries over to the next one. I'm talking about sex with someone new, smoking drugs, drinking booze, or burning down a motel with my imaginary friends. It's never the same a second time around, let alone a third.




By Sunday night, I was physically exhausted. But due to certain obligations, I had to project my weird videos all night long at a beauty parlor themed bar...No, your eyes don't deceive you, I said beauty parlor themed bar. I gambled with my health, and lost, all at an establishment I wouldn't use as a shelter during a Mongolian Death Worm attack.

But I take full responsibility for my mistake and for the war currently being waged in my sinus cavity. On to other matters...




I'm gonna try something new. I'm gonna write one long story in multiple posts, serial style. A paragraph or two every other day. It'll give me some focus and a point to start from each time, because I never know what the fuck to write about, hence the sporadic nature of my posts. Oh, and I'm calling the story...

THE LARRY CHRONICLES


Until then, here's an Asian kid doing a mediocre bike trick...

Beard Growth Profit-Loss Projections

The problem with facial hair is the maintenance it requires. It becomes another obligation to grapple with, another source of anxiety. I thought having a beard would simplify things, and it has to some extent, but I still have to trim the bitch, otherwise my mustache starts advancing on my upper lip, and it feels like I'm being tickled with bear grass. And the urge - THE URGE! - to shave it all off gets overwhelming after a while. I met a girl with dreadlocks who said she thinks about cutting 'em off all the time. I told her she should go with her gut and 86 those dirty skull tentacles.




Whenever I plot my shave, I look 3 weeks into the future for any important event in which having a beard is necessary. A Jewish holiday, a job interview, or a hot date are taken into consideration, as they all require minimal facial hair experimentation. I have neither a job interview nor a date in my near future, and Passover was last week.

So I shaved my beard off yesterday, but left the mustache, as a fail-safe - because my mustache grows at a slower rate than the rest of my face hair - and some sideburns for good luck. I look like this now...




But back to my original point about constant maintenance... There is never going to be a time when everything in my life is organized, cleaned, and taken care of. I have to realize this basic fact more often, and learn to let go. Perfection is bullshit. I don't know how it became a goal of mine to have everything the way it's supposed to be. It's impossible. Getting things in order is mostly busy work masked as progress. I'm never gonna figure it all out, and sometimes I'm totally cool with that, but other times it grinds my potatoes. I'm content when I'm hanging out with people I like. Time flies and I don't care. It's wonderful. But, when I'm by myself, I get frustrated with all the chaos I perceive... I need to stop hanging out by myself all the time, and start hanging out with this lady...

ChangeThat Diaper

I was walking down Milwaukee Avenue on another gray day in Chicago. My mission was to find a store that carried blue shoelaces. Little missions are good because they're easy to accomplish, and achieve results that are tangible and satisfying. Anyway, as I was walking around the neighborhood, I asked myself if I'd miss this place if I moved away. And my answer was... a little bit.





I just got back from 18 days in Los Angeles. I feel confused and in limbo. I plan on moving to LA sometime in the next 6 months, because I really want to be an editor, and there are more opportunities for me to get a job out there. And because the weather is nice in LA, I can't use the "It's cold and miserable outside" excuse to stay in my cocoon.





The goal of my westward trip was to lay some groundwork for my eventual move, take in some sun, and reconnect with a good friend of mine. I succeeded in the latter 2 goals. Getting people to return emails is rough. Getting people on the phone is fucking impossible. I have no delusions of instant success, but a little encouragement would've gone a long way. During my last week there, I kind of half-assed my attempts at getting sit-downs with editing folk. Bad habits and motivational issues stifling progress once again.





Right now, Chicago doesn't feel like my home anymore. LA certainly didn't feel like home, either. But that could change. Perhaps I'm getting myself psychologically ready to abandon this city after 4-plus years of nothing special. Except the first year, which was really fun -- like Slip n' Slide fun.

My opportunities are elsewhere. I have no concrete ties here. No job. No girlfriend. The lease on my apartment ends in August. This is the perfect time for me to grow some balls and make a move. The only things giving me doubt-fits are leaving my family & friends, the shitty job market, possible failure, and the loss of my comfortable nest here in Chicago. Besides those things, I'm not worried...

...Hey, is it a bad sign that I already envision myself talking to somebody at a party 2 years in the future, acknowledging what a horrible mistake it was to move to LA?

Cookies and Lottery Tickets

I woke up stupid today. And not from a hangover or overexertion or anything I might have ingested. Just heavy and lifeless. A complete and utter lack of motivation, wherein even the notion of going back to sleep is met with a resounding "why bother?". Coffee must be absorbed and magazines must be skimmed, killing time until this dull malaise washes away.




I'm taking the passive approach to rid my brain of the terrible stupid. No jumping jacks in the shower or headbutts to the fridge. This stupid will learn that it can't just take over my brain and settle. I am going to bore it to death. And if that doesn't work, I'll smoke some pot...no! That's what the stupid wants! What's the opposite of smoking pot? Performing surgery!

I will find a hobo living in the Lower Wacker skid-row villas, and I will take out his appendix. Yeah! One doesn't really need an appendix, so he won't miss it. Plus he'll have an awesome scar on his abdomen. Chicks love scars. Chicks also love dudes with jobs, so I guess it all cancels out.

And since every scar has a story behind it, he'll earn many a bowl of porridge recounting the tale of the ski-masked white boy who chloroformed him and cut up his belly. My actions will confirm the conspiracy theories he so desperately clings to in his daily battles with poverty and mental illness.



After he wakes up, he doesn't have to worry about his appendix flaring up ever again. However, he'll definitely have to worry about a serious infection, and the ever looming specter of being kidnapped and cut up again. But that's his problem.

Wow, I feel better already!

Because I Suck at Email

MORE DISPATCHES FROM THE NEST OF GRUMP...


I suck at email. I can never get the tone right and I obsess over words and syntax. But obsession yields no results, and it still comes out all wrong. It's common for people who receive an email from me to misread a sarcastic sentence, or mistake a compliment for condescension.





I also suck at text messaging, although it's much more forgiving because of the accepted use of sentence fragments. But I still can't type anything over a sentence without questioning what I'm trying to say and how it will be perceived.

Perhaps it's the formality I impose upon myself. I never know if I should start with a "dear so and so", or with a quick name-check like -
"Hey Herbert,
Just lettin' you know that I'm sittin' in a lawn chair in front of your house right now, holding a really thick carrot. See ya!"





I'm just bad at the whole thing. I come off as either uncaring, creepy, or overenthusiastic. I've tried my hand at internet dating, too, and oh boy what an abortion! Apparently I have no business making kisses on a lady. Internet dating makes me feel like I'm trapped in a dusty psychic crypt, while weird reclusive women with impossible standards measure and judge me from the other side of a two-way mirror.





I've only had one email buddy in my life. She was a friend who moved away from Chicago, so the tone and subject matter of our natural conversation was already established. And we mostly complained to each other about our lives, which wasn't that much different from what we normally talked about. Perhaps you've noticed that I'm more comfortable writing about things that bother me. It's easy, cataloging petty annoyances, and something I'm good at.





Maybe I should preface all my emails with this header: "The email you're about to read is inconsistent and nervous in nature. Please forgive me."-- Yeah, nobody is gonna delete that on principle.

I just need to face the facts. My self-doubt is noticeable when I write and unavoidable when I talk. It'll probably be that way forever. Shalom.

Carl Winslow Stars in All New Videos!

I've been sitting on these new videos for about a month now. Why? Because I've been busy, out of town, and haven't felt like writing in months. I just got back from Los Angeles, where I struggled to get some groundwork started on my eventual move out there. Yes, barring a cataclysmic catastrophe of tragic misfortune, I'll be moving to LA in 4-6 months. Good weather year round + better opportunities in my field = stupid not to at least try it out. But more on that in a later post...





This here video was a year in the making (1 night random thought scribbled on a post-it, 11 and a half months bed-rest, 2 weeks finding and editing together Family Matters footage). Instead of portraying Carl Winslow as insane, which I've gotten a lot of mileage out of, I portrayed him as clinically depressed/suicidal, and used Gary Jules' "Mad World" to seal the deal. It was really easy to acquire footage of Carl Winslow looking down and out. You might not remember it this way, but Family Matters is essentially a TV show about how much Carl's life sucks...

Carl Winslow - Too Sad to Eat Breakfast





This is just a song I like, paired with random footage I like...

No Age - "Eraser"






Expect more posts coming up, as I'm going to write a little bit every day help jump-start my write-bone. It may be just a few sentences, but I'll have something written and posted every other day. Until then, kids...

Be My Baby

I made a new video. Music supplied by The Ronettes. Best song ever. Should be the national anthem.

Be My Baby from Kid Douche

It Hoits When I Pee

Saw "The Hurt Locker" last night. Wow... just, wow! The most visceral movie I've seen in a while.




My only complaint is that there weren't enough hurt lockers. I actually counted zero hurt lockers throughout the entire film.

I mean, come on! This guy needs work...

Erik Threatens All Comers - New Year's 2010

Rise up against the tyranny of restraint!

Thunder Spook Juice

True story time!


I went to a loft show/party last night called Go Folk Yourself. It was less of a show and more like an uncomfortable smoky speakeasy in a building situated 20 feet away from a gas station. The performers had nice guitars and courage, but couldn't sing for shit. I tuned them out and struck up a conversation with a weird loner girl. Her hair was greasy, dyed red, and chopped all over the place. I noticed a picture button on her filthy satchel and asked her what it was.

She said, "That's the Hindu god, Ganesh."





There's a woman on the button as well. I ask about her and who she's supposed to be. She answers, "Oh, that's Ganesh's mother."

I respond, "A woman giving birth to an elephant? That doesn't happen too much these days."

She asks me what I mean, and I reply, "The way I understand it, with the world as it is now, it's impossible for a woman to give birth to an elephant god. No way. Not happening."

And she says, "Well, maybe you're limiting the way you experience life."





After she said that, I got scared and wanted to run away so I never had to talk to her again, but that would have been a breach of etiquette, so I hung in there. Who am I to violate the sanctity of human interaction?

She stared at me and I went silent. Her big fuckin' crazy eyes were burning a hole through my head. This went on for a minute and then I saw her lips move as she said something. I asked her to repeat what she said because I couldn't hear with all the music going.

She looks at my forehead and says, "Do you have any change?"

I say, "What?"

"I need some money for the bus. Can you give me a nickel?"

I reply, "No. I don't carry change around. I don't like the weight of it in my pockets."

What I wanted to say was, "Fuck you, shitty idiot!" And I wanted her face to melt away, revealing some intergalactic bird head. I'd like her to sprout wings and fly out the window like a psycho buzzard. I really wanted some supreme moment to occur.

But she just awkwardly shuffled away from where we were standing. And I couldn't have been more relieved.

Because of Loopy Feelings, Brainless Ramblings

Late last night, I took a look at some of the stuff I had written over the summer. Most of it was written in August, when I tried to reform my sleep schedule by getting up at 9am everyday. I should have known how hard it was going to be, and I've never had a lot of faith in my ability to change without external motivation anyway. And the reward for getting my sleeping habits on track was this: an optimistic mood that I might feel. That's a vague and stupid reward. Plus, trying to change behavioral patterns is an awful idea for a person who prides himself on never deviating from a personal code of arbitrary limitations. And staying up all night is really fun.

So, I got up at 9 everyday, but I also went to sleep at 5am every night. Altering your sleep schedule doesn't work if you're not sleeping very much. It just leads to brain ghosts and foggy journeys of low grade suffering.

Tension and mental unrest were my companions. I felt dizzy all the time, a nervous breakdown wasn't entirely out of the question, and I had intense cravings for hoisin sauce.

It turned into a horrible failure of a time, filled with panic attacks that eventually lead me to seek therapy - but that's another story.

Here are some slightly edited paragraphs and poems written during that period. Slightly edited because the raw material scared the Polish right out of my DNA...



------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


boom boom!
bath house poundings
bam bam!
human growth in a foul place





Poltergeists threw up inside my van. My van is your van. Poody poody hoo! Do as I say! I will ruin you! Suck my cocks! Do you suck dicks? Do. You. Suck. Dicks?

Farts smell bad. She gots lots o’ cousins. Can I have some pills, please?

Sylvester has a ball containing the meat of splendor. What fury it must arouse!





Heed this: Once the destruction starts and the lumber crumbles, it will be easier to find a mate who is more afraid of the end than you. Calm that person and take them underground where the sun is collected through stories and rumors.


Gun black glistening night.
Satisfied smoke.
Is sister alright?
No.
Sister is dead.
Long live the smoke from
father's gun.





Shit, I gotta go, man. I just microwaved my Sega.