Halloween is For Haters

Based on tonight's events, a new personal tradition has been born. From now on, I will ride my bike through the Wicker Park bar district at 2am on Halloween night every year, for the rest of my life.

Why?

Because of the remarkable and hilarious sight of people in costumes stumbling home drunk, tired, and sad. I just saw a bleary-eyed Cruella De Ville hunched over a burrito on the curb. That's why.

2am is clearly the time when the facade of fantasy wears off and the party people wobble back to their apartments to sober up. Faded makeup and stained French maid outfits in tow. It's like seeing a dream unmistakably die right before your eyes. Brutal yet exhilarating.

Until next year...


(via Brendan Donnelly)

U.S.S. Kid Douche Hits Iceberg, Spills Guts

Personal and advice seeking blog alert!

Well, it's been almost a full month since my first blog, and I feel like I've learned a thing or two about perseverance in that time. I really didn't think I'd still be doing the every day posting shuffle, figuring I'd putter out around the two week mark, but here we are. It's been a good way of developing some sort of a creative discipline instead of wasting my time watching DVDs, getting initiated into various gangs, and hitting on the manager of my local Quizno's. I'm proud of myself for keeping this going, even though sometimes the quality of the posts are not what I'd consider top notch, but I'll get to that later. I basically started this as a way to pull myself out of a creative rut and boy oh boy, has it worked like gangbusters (and Ghostbusters). Putting thoughts into action instead of holding them in my vault (mind) has made me realize that I need to actualize, man. Do things instead of not doing things. Unleash my potential like a junk yard dog on pay day.



As I've stated earlier, the catalyst for the creation of this here blog was when I happened to stumble upon Brendan Donnelly's blog. You know how when The Ramones played in a new city, and the people who saw them got inspired to create their own bands? That's pretty much how I felt after seeing the simplicity and hilarity of the Brendan Donnelly blog template (not to mention Street Boners and TV Carnage, Fart Party, The Arab Parrot, and Sorry I Missed Your Party, to name a few). I sort of mimicked the style completely at first, and have slowly been trying to find my own voice and style ever since.

Here's my personal creative issues in a nutshell:

My video projects never get started because it always seems like an overwhelming endeavor, so I put it off, pretty much all the time. I got so used to doing nothing that it became normal.

Here's the stuff I do that makes me feel alive, yet I've been neglecting out of fear, anxiety, laziness, psychosomatic illnesses, guilt, and spite. Enjoy The Ovening! (please note that the first 15 seconds are blank)
The Ovening



As my good friends know, I'm basically a 67-year old man in a 26 year-old's body (hubba hubba). I've got all sorts of medications, bowel disorders, insomnia, anxiety and dental issues. You know, the regular Jew maladies.

I don't like driving and hate almost everyone that I meet. I'm incredibly loyal to the people that I love, but that's just covers my family, and about 7 other people. Everyone else can go fuck themselves with Bagel Bites.



Kid Douche was an easy way for me to start the process of making my life become more like Jurassic Park. I've failed in that respect, but gained many new dinosaur dreams, which are predictably terrifying.



So with all that out of the way, what I'd like to propose is a way for me to have more quality posts, instead of the sometimes questionable ones that piss me off days later when I reread them. I don't know what you, the reader, enjoy the most, and I'd really appreciate some feedback, even negative feedback. Do you like the fake biographies, the pictures, the captions, the meanderings into personal territory, the video clips, the photoshopped crap, the general negativity, or the violent nonsense? Just let me know what the best parts are, and I'll focus on them more. I'm up for anything, really, and haven't decided on what kind of content I want to pursue in depth. Hell, you could suggest that I write a soup diary with status reports on how Ukrainian I feel.

In the meantime, I'm not going to be posting every day anymore. If I do, I'll end up like this:


I will be posting every other day, and my friend Dan, who hasn't picked a handle yet, will be posting as well. I don't have the slightest clue what he will be writing about, but he likes music, drinking, and obscene nonsense, so he'll probably write about that. Here's a picture of him (I'm not kidding, this is really my friend Dan)


He's a computer whiz and knows way more shit than I do about flash and web design and gif making. He's a good friend who's pumped to write, and I have full confidence in his ability to entertain all y'all brain stems.

I'm excited about the prospects of this here blog, because I'm only starting to realize the limitless potential such a forum creates. I'd like thank each and every one the people who check this site out frequently, and hopefully, with some time and effort, it will become a better blog.

Bodat!

I Killed Radio Raheem

Before I get to the pleasant portions of this past weekend's trip to Wisconsin, I must rehash some grisly business first. Before Lindsay and I headed to her friend's Wisconsin lake house, we had to drop the dog off at her family's house, because canines have been outlawed in Wisconsin since an Animal Farm-like rebellion pitted man against dog in 1938.

In fact, this is the only dog allowed in the state, and he is an interminable prick. Someone please shoot this dog in the face before he shits on your blankets and disappears, forcing you to explain why 17 pounds of brown corn are resting on the guest room bed.
All praise be to brendan donnelly for the pic.



When we let the dog out into the backyard, Lindsay spotted an injured robin struggling in the grass.
(Photo of robin not actually in grass, but still struggling, no? Little fucker can't even do a pullup)


Possessing a higher tolerance for avian suffering than most, I felt it my duty to take a closer look at the robin, who I shall hereby call Radio Raheem.

Radio Raheem wasn't looking so hot. He was stretching his legs spastically without coordination, he was plummeting forward as if his head was heavier than the rest of his body, and was spreading his wings randomly. My diagnosis: Radio Raheem is fucked.

Lindsay handed me a towel to pick him up with, because we all know that towels are barriers to contamination. So I held Raheem up and gently thrust him skyward about 4 feet off the ground. Radio Raheem fell like a rock. He fell like he wasn't aware that at one time, he could fly. Something had gone terribly wrong inside his feathered little head, and there was nothing that could be done to cure him.


Lindsay suggested that we take him to the vet, but after some deliberation, we both agreed that the vet would probably just put the bird down. It would waste time and prolong the agony of poor Radio Raheem. I had to take care of it myself.

Lindsay went back in the house, unwilling to witness the bloodshed I had to inflict upon the brainsick bird. I figured a big, heavy rock dropped upon his head would be the swiftest method of euthanasia, and also because I didn't want to stomp Radio Raheem, leaving bird viscera coating my kicks.

As the rock hovered above his head, I told Radio Raheem that I was sorry it had come to this. I hesitated in dropping the killing rock, and tried to conjure up any past instances in which I partook in wildlife murder. I drew a blank. The only things I've ever killed were insects and my chances of getting laid.

I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and dropped the rock. I heard a minor thud and looked down to see if Radio Raheem had been assassinated. The killing rock had struck its target and the bird was dead. I killed Radio Raheem.

It's okay, though. Radio Raheem is in heaven now, kickin' it with triple faced Jesus.


I took hold of Radio Raheem using a plastic bag and placed him at the base of a tree in a wooded area behind the house. Later that night, I recounted my ordeal at the lake house. Lindsay's friend pointed out that due to its obvious neurological impairment, perhaps Radio Raheem had West Nile. This freaked everyone out a little, but it's been 5 days and I'm fine.

And that's how my weekend began. Luckily, the rest of the weekend was slaughter-free. Not even a wolf decapitation.

My First Time

Ahhhh, my first proper blog, although you can read my past meanderings here. This will be a photo-heavy blog with some words of wisdom accompanying said photos.

I've recently got my hands on a copy of Photoshop and have been creating abnormal cocktails of visual ecstacy.


I must admit that I was pretty content with my occasional myspace shenanigans until I read brendan donnelly's blog and discovered the wonderfully terrible things I could broadcast on a legit blog site. Read it here, and encourage the fella, because he's doing god's work. Speaking of doing god's work:


More to come, including my adventures in getting a camera shoved down my throat.