GUNS GUNS GUNS BIKES BIKES

Chops the Lumberjack: a Children's Story of Questionable Appropriateness

2010-10-10T18:56:00.000-07:00

A long time ago, when the world was a simpler place, there lived a lumberjack.

A lot of lumberjacks, really, but one in particular.

He was born to a family of lumberjacks. Even his mother and 4 sisters had thick, bushy beards, as all lumberjacks did in those days.

He had a problem, you see. He couldn't grow hair on his chin. No matter how he tried, all he could muster up were a pair of solid, furry muttonchops, which were exceptional in their own way, but earned him scorn from the other lumberjacks, who saw no value in a beard with no chin, and gave him the cruel nickname Chops to remind of of his deficiency.

He heard of a princess one day, though. Had a magic banjo, they said. A magic banjo that granted beards. That's what the legends told of, anyway.

It turns out that as ridiculous as that was, there was indeed a princess who possessed a magic banjo, but her story was not such a rosy one as the stories had made it out to be.

You see, there was a curse. A curse put on her by her evil ex-mother-in-law. The spell kept her imprisoned in her castle, and only a kiss could release her. Which would be no biggie, except that the curse also forced her to play the magical banjo for anyone who came to her, and that playing of the magical banjo produced such a beard as to make a kiss simply impossible.

To the 'jack, however, who didn't know, she was just a means to an end, despite being eternally cute as all get out, another condition of the curse thrown in there just to make things that much more frustrating for her.

So he made his way to her castle, through swamps and deserts, and trees. Right through the middle of trees. He hadn't considered going around trees because he wasn't too bright, and hey, he had this fucking axe so why not, is what he figured.

And so it came to pass that he came to her door, covered in cuts and scrapes and woodchips and whatnot.

Wearily, she picked up the banjo as he entered, wanting to get it over with so she could get back to knitting nets for catching hippies and dolphins.

He smelled of hickory smoke and fighting. As he limped in wearily and smokily, he looked up at the banjoist, and saw something magical.

Not the banjo, either. Well, yes, the banjo was magical, but not metaphorically, which is where we're at here, narrative-wise.

Looking at the girl, you see, was the magical thing. He'd seen women in his life, no doubt about that, but this one was different.

She had an intangible quality to her that affected him deeply, a presence, and also a profound lack of facial hair, which was novel and kind of sexy.

He wanted to go chop down every tree in every forest to produce lumber for her, if that's what she wanted. He found himself producing a certain amount of lumber just standing there, if you know what I mean.

As he gaped, he could feel the follicles in his face come alive and start to grow. He brought his hands up to his face, and his delight turned to dismay, as he realized his chops were growing like wildfire but his chin remained shamefully bare.

At his groan of despair, she looked up from her depressed banjoing and stared at the gloriously bare chin and accessible mouth, a sight she'd not seen in a truly long time.

She got up and approached him, still banjoing that magic banjo, eyes locked on his lower face. He turned away. "No! Look not upon my hairless shame!", he whispered hopelessly, wanting to chop down a tree and use it to hide himself from this magical creature.

Being a good deal quicker than he, mentally speaking, she pointed vaguely and shouted, "oh no, a tree!", and at that, he looked around wildly to see what kind of tree could have sneaked into the room so quickly, and what the best angle for axing it would be. While he was distracted, the still- playing princess lunged in and laid a smooch on him that had been waiting to go and getting seriously frustrated for nearly twenty years now. Seriously. She probably tasted a little bit of lung; that's the sort of thing I'm talking about here.

There was a sound of fireworks. It was actually the evil ex mother in law's spell backfiring explosively and blowing her all the way to florida, but as far as the couple we're paying attention to were concerned, it was pretty much irrelevant, much like their clothes, which were mostly draped over furniture in shreds, at this point. They were probably boning, but I'm not gonna say for sure in case your kids are still reading this.

And that was pretty much that.

I'm Drunk and Your OKCupid Sucks: Laid Back Does not Equal Laid

2010-05-10T02:28:00.000-07:00

Dan from Belgium wants to get on the bandwagon here:

Hey. Wait up, I wanna get on.

Happy Mother's Day, motherfucker. I had to cook 3 dozen eggs' worth of fucking omelettes today for my family, and I never cook sober, so now I've got about 4 of those sweet new pint cans of Miller Lite in me, and I'm drinking Moscato out of a coffee cup. I feel like I should get some cut-off jorts and a wifebeater to complete the white trash buzz.

pictures:

1) Well, shit, if you don't look like the happiest fucker ever to wake up in a sleeping bag. I'd keep that picture just for that. Thumbs-up indeed.

As for the photos as a whole, my general impression is that you are high, like, all of the time. Except for the one where you've got sunglasses on so you can hide how fucking high you are. I feel like every one of those captions should read "Duuuuuuuuuuude." I suddenly want to eat an entire box of Wheat Thins.

Anyway. Photos. You look kind of sweaty in the last two, and I feel like the first three could be a lot better if we had some captions to give them context. Maybe add some more where you're smiling and doing shit with people without looking sweaty. Key is the smiling and not being sweaty. Having your eyes open so you don't look profoundly high would also be a plus, but then again, I'm not from Belgium, so who knows.

Profile

I am like, thinking, and stuff. Don't rush me.

Nice. I still think you're high as fuck, but still, good one.

My Self-Summary
I'm a generally 'laidback' guy, and by that I mean I am lazy. So very lazy. I still enjoy life as much as possible - after all, we only get one shot - but it just so happens that a lot of my enjoyment comes from hitting that snooze button a few times before getting up and parking my sexy self behind my computer or underneath a tree with a good book. When I have time, that is.

So basically, the first and most important thing that you want people to know about you is that you're a lazy, unmotivated layabout whose greatest joy in life is hitting the snooze button?

Really, dude? Really? Of all your possible positive aspects, this is the one you're going to run with?

I'm going to let you in on a secret, man. We all like sleeping in and hitting the snooze. All of us. It's rad. But what makes us interesting and unique isn't that, it's what gets us out of bed, what motivates us to forgo the comfortable for the challenging, what we sacrifice things to acquire, that set us apart from each other.

So like, here's the thing. My first impression is that you literally have nothing going on in your life that's more interesting than continuing to sleep. And not everyone's looking for a dude who's a massively driven overachieving workaholic, but I don't think I'm going out on a limb here when I say that making "lazy" your best foot forward might just be, oh, what's the term, fucking retarded.

I generally dislike crowds, and prefer a nice quiet evening in a bar with a few friends to grinding like a howler monkey on speed in an overcrowded club. An evening spent playing Risk, Settlers of Catan, watching an action flick, browsing the interwebz or playing some videogames are all preferable to clubs, really. You could say I loathe clubs. And you'd be right.

I'm not really sure how many times I have to repeat myself, dude, but you're not supposed to talk about shit you don't like, and you're definitely not supposed to disparage shit for no good reason. Guess what, some people like clubs, and they still might conceivably sleep with you, except that you just compared people who dance in clubs, to fucking howler monkeys, so you basically just alienated pretty much everyone who has ever enjoyed going out to a club. I swear, it's almost like you're actively trying to keep attractive girls out of your pants.

Also: Interwebz? Really?

There's nothing wrong with the Internet or playing Settlers, but there's no need to be a fuckhead about it and needlessly disparage other people's Friday night activities. You know how often fuckheads get laid? Not all that fucking often.

What I’m doing with my life
At the moment I'm studying Dutch - English in Ghent, after that I'd like to become a smith. No, really. I want to create. Take a slab of metal and transform it into a perfectly forged tool, a beautiful piece of jewellery, perhaps a work of art. The educational system has stifled my creative side, and I want nothing more than to reawaken it. Smithing seems perfect, it combines creativity and practicality. Making beautiful things that have meaning, function.

You're studying English so you can go be a smith? Have you actually made any steps toward being a smith? Have you done like, a single fucking thing that relates to smithing, or is this just a thing that you'd "like to do"? Because everyone has things they'd "like to do". I'd "like to" be Sandra Bullock's love slave and also have a pony that shits bacon, but because I haven't done anything to get me closer to that state, I don't go around pretending like it's something that anyone else should give a fuck about. If you're actually committed to doing stupid shit like making swords for renfaire dorks or whatever, then you should be doing something about it, and the doing something might be worth mentioning, but right now, want to is just a big ol' sign around your neck stating that you don't have any doing something happening in your life. Want to is not helping you here.

The first things people usually notice about me
I'd have to say my beard. Not because it's particularly awesome (though it is), but because a beard is a hard thing to miss. If you're not into beards, that's okay, just remember this age-old adage: "Beards. They grow on you."

It was kind of amusing. Not amusing enough to make up for any of your other sins so far, but it doesn't make me angry, so there's that.

I'm not 100% committed to liking the beard, for the record. My opinion is that most dudes look better without beards. Longish hair, similarly, is a thing some dudes can pull off, and I'm not sure if you're either of those kinds of dudes. The chunky gamer dude with long hair and a beard is an archetype that, let's face it, doesn't get laid much. Just...think about it.

The second thing people notice are my horrible puns.

My favorite books, movies, music, and food
Books:
- Watchmen - Moore & Gibbons
- Maus - Spiegelman
- One Hundred Years of Solitude - Márquez
- Discworld series - Pratchett
- Nights at the Circus - Carter

Movies:
- The Lord of the Rings, Star Wars, Fight Club, etc
- Stardust (don't judge me)
- I'm always up for a good nature documentary

Series:
- BSG
- Firefly
- Futurama
- Avatar

Music:
I like most genres, but Elektro-House will always have a special place in my ears.

Whatever. Nerdy shit. No one's surprised. If I'm going to nitpick, though, "The Lord of the Rings, Star Wars, Fight Club, etc"? doesn't make any fucking sense, as Fight Club has nothing in common with LotR and Star Wars, so no one knows what the fuck kind of movies the et cetera might conceivably mean.

On a typical Friday night I am
enjoying one of Ostend's (where I stay during the weekend) many fine eateries with friends. Afterwards we usually check to see if there aren't any live bands playing in one of the local Jazz bars, if not it's off to a pub to laugh, make sarcastic remarks and contemplate the intricacies of time travel. During the summer we might head to the beach, crack open a bottle of rum and think about the meaning of life and other pseudo-philosophical BS.

Okay, that last bit is okay. You do, in fact, have friends, and you do, in fact, go out sometimes and do fun things that aren't settlers of Catan.

I'm actually thrilled as fuck that you didn't fill out the 6 things I couldn't live without or why you should message me, because it seems like everyone fills those out with stupid bullshit filler just because they can't stand leaving them blank. So, you know, kudos on that.

Conclusion: I'd probably go get drunk with you on the beach, but man, you gotta make it sound like you're more than just a lazy sack of shit who sleeps in and resents "club people" who go out and dance and get laid occasionally. Dig deep, find some scraps of individuality here, and tell us about them. 'Cause those are the bits that will convince someone that you should be allowed to touch her boobies. Go, touch some boobies.

So how about you, jerkoff? Got an OKCupid profile? Want me to tell you that it sucks, with a BAC well over the legal limit? Post a link to it in the comments or shoot me an email, and I'll get to it.

And here's all of my collected drunken love advice so far.

I'm Drunk & Your OKCupid Sucks: NEEEEERD!

2010-04-28T00:52:00.000-07:00

One more earnest request, from someone called Gucci Banana, from Blacksburg, Virginia.

I could always use a look-see on my profile, too.

It's new. Be gentle.

Alright, Gucci Banana, here's my 2 cents. My pants are back on and there's no more Chardonnay, so you're getting it straight from a flask of Ten High that I keep around for emergencies.

Photos!:

First thing, right off, and I need to make a new thread so I can lay some shit out in the OP, do not apologize. Don't apologize for who you are, what you do, or your shitty webcam pictures. You're in college. There is literally no way that you do not have access to a camera better than your shit webcam, or a standard mini-USB cable that you use to upload photos. Go, bug your neighbor and get it done. Or use pictures from Facebook. There's got to be a better option than grainy shit-resolution pictures of you in possibly the worst shirt ever. If you're straight-up hipster and roll in a hipster crowd that wears stupid shit like that ironically, and don't mind that most people think it's kind of retarded, then fine, I guess. If you're not already experienced chasing hipster tail, then I'd recommend against. You can keep it if it's part of a picture that's not otherwise grainy and boring and shitty, how about that?

The pink headband shot might be retarded, but if it's a costume party or some shit, then it's excused, as long as you can caption it and make it something amusing that doesn't lead us to believe you actually dress like that, and as long as you have enough other pictures where you're not looking like a tard.

THE PROFILE

I am unable, to speak, Mr., and erson.

I was amused, but then again, I'm easy amused by stupid 3 Words wordplay, and I've seen The Matrix a bunch of times. I doubt it's a dealbreaker for anyone, but I suspect it could be confusing to some people who aren't attuned to nerdy wordplay. Your call, I guess. It's not cliche or boring, though.so points for that.

My Self-Summary
My name is Kyle. I spend much of my time teaching the homeless how to figure skate with a grace that would make Johnny Weir go hetero.

I'm a student at Virginia Tech, but we'll talk about that later. I'm also a resident advisor at Tech, and it wouldn't be rash of me to say that my residents would probably take a bullet for me. Scratch that; I know they would. I play a multitude of instruments, but mainly just the guitar nowadays.

Name: Irrelevant. Wacky random humor: Not helping. If you're going to make up shit to be funny, it should also be something that says something true about you, not just MONKEY CHEESE WEASEL LOL, which in my opinion doesn't do any good here. I had a stupid running joke in my old profile about how I was really Batman. it worked because I really do aspire to be more Batmanlike in my everyday life, and because it gave an opening for them to email me and suggest that we fight crime together, or that we should be nemeses, which several did.

Stuff like being a student and playing the guitar are cool, but I'd say they fit more in the "what I'm doing with my life" section. I'm not going to get all YOU ARE NOT YOUR JOB Tyler Durden and all, but it's true. This part's hard because it wants you to describe who you are, and that's a question that's not remotely easy to answer. I answer it by talking about the things I do that I feel reveal parts of that answer, like my obsession with motorbikes and fixing things and Sharpie tattoos and stereotypically manly things, and a comparison to a grizzled, drunken boy scout. It's not a bad way to go, in my experience, but everyone communicates who they are a little differently.

I'm quite alright with being a nerd. I'm currently writing this on a 32" monitor that was worth every penny. I play PS3 and X-box 360 in my free time, but not to an extent that would cause me to become socially inept. I also own an SNES... ladies.

It's good that you're at peace with being a nerd, but bear in mind that the more you talk about being a nerd, the fewer non-nerd women will be interested. Just the way it is. Admitting that you own 3 different game consoles in a paragraph that's supposed to be about who you are is basically a train right to Nodatesville. So I'd leave it out, just like how I leave out the part where I like to do 5k runs in drag. You let someone get to know you first, so they have a reason to stick around when they discover the tranny porn under your mattress. Those 3 consoles? They're your tranny porn for now, until a girl can meet you and see your good qualities before you mention offhand that you like to game a little.

What I’m doing with my life
When I'm not busy throwing kittens into trees or saving kittens from trees when scantily clad females are around, I spend my days learning to engineer computers. If that job of stardom doesn't work out, I'm hoping for Astronaut Rock Star Dinosaur Hunter. Fingers crossed!

Drop the non-sequitur crap, never disparage your chosen field. Mention your guitar shit here, and any other stuff you do that's social stuff, stuff she could maybe want to do with you. Sow the seeds of date possibilities. Do you bowl? Ride bikes socially? Donate your time at homeless shelters? Talk about it here.

I’m really good at
I excel in many things. My ride checks never fail or dip below 15

I don't know what that means. Does everyone in your area know what that means?

, My thumbs are great at getting jammed whilst attempting to set a volleyball, and my vocabulary expands when I've been drinking.

I'm not an amazing guitar player, but I'm capable. I do consider myself to be a good singer, though. I went to All-State twice, if anyone out there knows what that is...

I know my way around a computer.

We know. You're a compSci major. No need to rub it in, nerdatron.

And my vocabulary really does expand when I've been drinking. It's uncanny.

The first things people usually notice about me
My eyes are green, My stance is proud, and my gaze can kill. Trust me.

That sounds pretty original. Keep it.

My favorite books, movies, music, and food
Books: No thanks, I'll wait for the movie. Seriously. I rarely have the free time to read, so I rely on Hollywood to pick out what's good and trim it down to a couple hours.

Movies: I generally watch TV shows more than movies. My favorite shows are Scrubs, House MD, and Dexter. I've been meaning to get into some other stuff, but I'm lazy.

Music: I generally can tolerate anything creative, with the exception of Country music. Some of my favorite bands include The Dear Hunter, Muse, Coheed and Cambria, Circa Survive, Queen, and Protest the Hero. I don't mind screaming in songs, as long as it adds to it artistically.

Food: Ramen, but in order to stray from the college kid status quo, I also enjoy anything with an alfredo sauce, sammiches, Hawaiin style pizza, and taco bell. I have yet to try the new KFC "Double Down." I tell myself that I'm saving it for a special occasion, like having excess money to spend on KFC.

Admitting that you don't read anything is generally a no-no. There's gotta be something you can remember enjoying reading. I'm not saying lie, but most chicks I know prefer dudes who are at least capable of finishing a book every couple of years. There's gotta be some other foods you enjoy that aren't stereotypically goony game-addict fast food.

I spend a lot of time thinking about
Soup.

It's not that interesting, but I guess it's original. i say it's neutral, although there's really no need to fill out all these prompts, and filler answers just dilute the good stuff elsewhere in your profile. Your call.

On a typical Friday night I am
Putting out forest fires. With my mind.

If no fires are to be had, I am generally hanging out with friends, listening to music, playing some video games, watching movies, or dying from homework overdose. Generally multiple things simultaneously.

Keep the forest fire bit. it's a stupid non-sequitur, but I chuckled anyway, and you used it to segue to your actual answer, which is cliche as fuck and generic and non-specific. "hanging out with friends" and "listening to music" are right up there with describing yourself as "laid-back", as useless fuck-boring answers go. Hanging out where? At a show? What kind of show? Don't give us all possible answers here, recall the best friday night you've had lately and then paint me a picture that makes me want to be a part of it.

The most private thing I’m willing to admit here
I'm willing to admit that I will admit to anything.

Why does every fucking dude think that their stupid non-answer is clever? because it isn't. Ever. Either answer it with something that's amusing or endearing or awesome but phrased in a way that sort of sounds like you're admitting something, or don't fucking answer it.

For example, I'm part of a non-profit corporation dedicated to keeping kids involved with the arts in my hometown. We're currently writing our own stage show that can only be described as "Hastily written." And I mean that in the best possible way out there.

See? That's something cool. You should have mentioned it way up there under "what I'm doing with my life", because it's endearing and philanthropic and you should have mentioned it before she got bored and moved on to a profile that had something worthwhile in it.

But that's not really private, unless you describe yourself as "boring." And that word isn't in my vocabulary. I have no idea what it means. It sounds fun, though.

I am an open book though. And for the record, the play is hilarious.

The stuff relevant to the play, move it up with the play stuff, ditch the rest, and come up with an actual answer or leave it blank.

You should message me if
You understood the soup reference, or any of the references I made, for that matter.

Your reference to soup was the single word "soup". I get a lot of references, but I don't get that one, and I'm betting not a lot of other people did.

If you're into music, be it writing it or listening, hit a brother up. I excel in both.

"Hey, you're into music. I'm into music too."
"Cool."
"..."
"..."
"...Welp, see ya later!"

Seriously, "I like music. If you like music, you should hit me up" is...I do't know what it is. It's kind of lame, and it's not going to lead anywhere.

Also, really? You excel at listening to music? Way to set the bar high, buddy.

If you know any good shows I should watch, or music I should listen to.

Really, dude? Do people actually do this? Email people on dating sites just to tell them that The Office is pretty cool? Maybe I'm wrong, but I've never heard of that every actually working, or going anywhere. It feels like you're making her do all the work here, coming up with some shit to recommend to you.

If your k/d ratio doesn't suck. I jest. It can suck, but you better look good dying.

I can hear, in my head, the sound of thousands of legs snapping shut forever for you. Definitely ditch that. For any girl that found that amusing, there were 20 who rolled their eyes and decided to definitely not email you.

How about, "If you want to see inner-city kids put on a hip-hop rendition of King Lear", or "If you want to [go out and see something that is cool, I don't fucking know]", or "if you think riding bikes and having a beer in the park sounds like fun"? This is a great place to make suggestions about stuff she might want to go out and do.

I'm sure you're fun and all, but I really don't think there's enough here for anyone to make that judgment. All I have so far is three game consoles, a lot of COMPUTERS, one cool thing about helping kids put on a stage show, and a bunch of stuff that literally every human does so it's not worth mentioning. I really have no picture of who you are as a human being, your hopes and dreams, your quirks, your sense of humor, your passions. I have no idea who you are, and I need you to tell me. Until then, well, have fun with your PS3, I guess.

I'm Drunk and your OKCupid Sucks: I Don't Care What Your Friends Fucking Say About You

2010-04-26T05:36:00.000-07:00

A request from a man named BebopZaibatsu:

I could always use some advice as to how to spice up the old profile.

Alright, muchacho. I'm drinking champagne from a pint glass, and I do not currently have pants on.

First thing, as usual: pictures:

Do you have a beard, or do you not have a beard? Your pictures should semi-accurately show what you currently look like. The one captioned as being recent-est, I can't even tell which dude you are. You don't need to identify every member of your family in every picture. In fact, don't identify them as your family, because as many family pictures as you have here, someone might assume that your fam are the only people willing to hang out with you. There's no need to identify anyone in your pictures at all, really, other than you. If you have to identify yourself, in fact, then that probably means the pictures aren't showing your face clearly enough, which an awful lot of yours aren't. get rid of anything where you're making a really stupid face, like the "I'm not high" one, crop down the ones where you're too small to recognize, so we can see your goddamn grill. The wedding one is fucking gold. Good smile, you look like a guy who can loosen up his tie and have some fun, and your dad's vest is so insanely retarded that it's awesome. Caption: "I'm on the left, wishing I was the one in the sweet-ass vest." Seriously, your dad rocks and I want to get drunk with him and his gay vest. I might have sex with his vest, if it buys me a drink. The ATHF pic might be awesome, or it might suck because you look like kind of a retard. I'd lose it personally, but it's your call, or someone else can give their opinion.

Profile:

I am kicking, ass, and chewing bubblegum.

Nice.

My Self-Summary
Hi, I'm Matt. Pleased to meet you. Most people would describe me as 'easygoing', but that's a boring adjective and who cares what they think anyways, right?

There's too much of this shit going around. This is not a meeting with a handshake, and your name is irrelevant at this point. You wanna come right out of the gate and explain who the fuck you are and what you're all about, so your name and your pleasure at meeting me don't matter.

Second point: there's also wayy too much of this "people say I'm *****" shit, and it sucks. What it says is that you're either too big of a pansy to make any kind of claim about who you are, or you actually don't know. Both of those are shitty options that suck. Know thyself, and don't hide behind your friend's opinions of what that self is. Be it, lay it bare, and do not apologize for it.

"Easygoing" is generally a good quality, but it's generic and passive and boring when used as a primary description of who you are

My policy is not to sweat the small stuff. I'm not the type of person who gets upset when my car gets scratched in a parking lot or if I have to wait an hour for a seat at a restaurant. I don't get truly upset easily. That's not to say I'm some sort of unfeeling robot(despite my boyhood dreams) and I'm pretty sure that I'm not a zombie.

All this stuff? It's all a list of shit that you're not, which isn't particularly useful. We're a paragraph in, and who you are is still basically a mystery. We want to know who you are at your core, what differentiates you from every other fucking nice guy on OKCupid, what makes you awesome, what makes you interesting.

People might also call me 'fun-loving'

DAMMIT, WHAT DID I JUST SAY

but seriously, who are these people out there that don't like having fun? I can't imagine anyone that just absolutely loves being miserable. Of course I love fun! But for me fun usually comes not from what you're doing, but who you're doing it with. Being stuck on a ski lift for an hour in the -10 degree wind can be one of the most fun times you've had if you're with the right people.

I'm not sure you realize this, but pretty much every human being ever would probably describe themselves as "fun-loving", rendering most of this as kind of generic. Some of it could become useful. "I find fun can be anywhere. I've found it at -10 degrees while stuck on a ski lift, with the right people, and I can find it wherever", maybe. After you take a good hard look at yourself and find some of your inner distinctive flavor to share with us first here.

What I’m doing with my life
I grew up in Ohio. After high school I decided to go to college mainly because I had no clue what else to do with myself. After 2 years of apathy towards my classes and a failing gpa I decided to abandon that train entirely and I moved up to Breckenridge, CO with a good friend of mine to try something new. The mountains started getting a little claustrophobic for me after a few years so I decided to move on down to Denver where I am now. Right now I'm on a bit of a hiatus from the working world, but the boredom is quickly getting to me. I'm currently checking out schools in the area to figure out what exactly it is that I want to do with myself in the future.

I'm gonna be a little mean here, I think, because fuck, it sounds like you're literally doing nothing with your life, and you just wasted a lot of words making that ridiculously clear. You literally could have left this blank and it would have been better, while still being totally accurate. I mean, fuck, I'm an engineering school dropout, but I don't go around telling people that. Now your potential date thinks you're a fuckup who's totally incapable of finishing anything or getting a job, and I'm really not sure that's the angle you wanna go with. The question here is "What I'm doing with my life", and there's got to be an answer that isn't "dropping out of literally everything I've ever done". Do you do anything? Anything that's awesome, or neat, or not depressing? Put that here. If there isn't, just leave it blank.

I’m really good at
Someone told me once

Fuck what he told you.

I've always been a fast learner. Whether it be a new job, game, gadget or whatnot I always seem to be able to pick up new concepts quickly.

It's not a red flag that makes me want to punch you, but it just doesn't grab me at all. I'd just leave it out, I guess.

My friends think I must be autistic or something, because I'm crazy good at remembering movie quotes. I often find myself slipping obscure movie quotes into normal conversation just to see if anybody will notice.

That...amuses me. I kind of like it. Leave that there.

The first things people usually notice about me
Girls comment a lot on my eyelashes. Apparently they're really nice. I don't know, I've never really payed them much mind.

You are such a pussy. If this is literally true, say it, otherwise shut the fuck up about who says what about you. I really doubt that it's actually the first thing anyone notices about you, and there's gotta be something more obvious, and it's not really anything that anyone is going to give a shit about, in my opinion, but it's something, and it's not something stupid and intangible like "My sense of humor", so if you really can't come up with anything distinctive about yourself other than your eyelashes, you can keep it.

Fuck, I just ran out of champagne. Switching to...chardonnay? What the fuck do I have chardonnay for? Fuck.

I think I usually come off as really mellow to people at first. How I come off I think depends a lot on you're own personality. If you're a really bubbly or outgoing person, I tend to reciprocate and be more outgoing myself.

Like "easygoing", "mellow" is literally an adjective that describes a lack of activity. It's basically a euphemism for "boring", for our purposes here, so I'd unrecommend it. And yes, people become more outgoing when someone else shows up and provides the energy. That usually means you're not supplying any of your own, which isn't great.

My favorite books, movies, music, and food
In no particular order:

Books: The Things They Carried, Going After Caciato, World War Z, Fight Club, Choke, Hyperion, Mistborn, The Wheel of Time, Catch-22, The Forgotten Soldier, The Road, Swansong...

Movies: Aliens, Pulp Fiction, The Big Lebowski, Wayne's World, Princess Mononoke, Eternal Sunshine for the Spotless Mind, Danny Deckchair, Day of the Dead...

Music: Tool, Yes, Joanna Newsom, Minus the Bear, Modest Mouse, The Flaming Lips, The Avalanches, Gorillaz, Pink Floyd...

Food: Most anything, and I'll try anything once. I tried sushi the other day for the first time ever and thought it was delicious. Albeit I was kinda drunk at the time so who knows? I suppose I'll have to try it again and see.

As always, this section is pretty underwhelming. Whatever, leave it be; it's a list that everyone just glosses over anyway.

The six things I could never do without
1) My Family
2) My Friends
3) I say the internet, but that's a lie. I never miss it when I go on vacation and don't bring my computer.
4) I can't leave my house without doing the 3-pat keys/phone/wallet check.
5) A little time to myself
6) Arbitrary lists of things

Honestly, there are so few people who can actually come up with 6 things that anyone would give a shit about, that unless you've got something really entertaining here, you might as well just leave it blank. Something like 90% of people have "friends" and "family" and "internet" here. Come up with 6 things that not every other fucking tard on okcupid has here, or just leave it blank so it doesn't distract from the non-boring crap in your profile.

I spend a lot of time thinking about
If aliens were watching us in our every day lives, what would they think about us?

That's...actually pretty original, I guess. Kudos.

On a typical Friday night I am
Any number of places depending on my mood. Out at a bar grabbing a few beers with a friend, at a party, out to a movie, sitting at home reading/watching movies/playing video games.

So, you've got listed here pretty much ever possible option for any given person on any friday night. Which is about the same as giving no answer at all. Narrow it down, motherfucker. To something unique or interesting. Or leave it blank.

The most private thing I’m willing to admit here
I still tear up a little bit during the campfire scene in Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

I chuckled. Keep it.

You should message me if
If you're one of those people that hate having fun. Seriously, what's the deal? Just don't expect me to want to hang out.

If you're one of those people that love having fun. We should hang out.

If you wish that superheroes existed in real life and are not ashamed to admit it.

If you would like me to give you a high five.

But really, you don't need my permission to message me. You do as you please, I don't mind.

I'd keep those all except the last one. It sounds way too much like the stupid generic shit that everyone puts there: You should message me if: If you want to. I hate that shit, and it makes me want to punch people. So don't do it.

So that's basically that. The upside is, you seem like a pretty genuinely fun guy who should be having no problem at all with this okcupid thing once you can communicate that to your profile visitors without being a pussy about it or oversharing about your work/school history. Go get some.

I'm Drunk and Your OKCupid Sucks: Screw You, Pretty Boy

2009-11-17T03:01:00.000-08:00

So I got an email from this guy asking me to review his OKCupid profile, and I really don't want to, because he's better looking than I am. But this is my calling, sisyphean as it may be, so I don't really have a choice in the matter.

PHOTOS, first of all:
Photos are good, if not particularly plentiful. You're smiling, you're doing stuff with people, and you're not illluminated by the glow of your computer monitor, so kudos.

On the other hand, you're way too good looking, so fuck you. It's not a thing you have to change, I'm just sayin'.

Jerkoff.

PROFILE

My Self-Summary:
I am tall as the dickens and quick as a jackrabbit. I work in a laboratory but I try hard not to do evil (on the premises). I liked to read books with a flashlight after dark and my eyesight suffered. Once I cut my nose shaving. I think science is pretty cool I guess.

Great, you're tall too. Thanks for rubbing it in, you son of a bitch.

The summary is a little short, to be honest. I know you're tall, sexy, and do sciency shit, but not much else. For your average girl, that might be enough, but you're blue-eyed, 6'2", and live in NY, so you're probably aiming a little higher than that, so I'd give us something more, something about what makes you unique, and not just a tall, really good-looking scientist, you bastard.

What I’m doing with my life:
Living it up in NYC, city so nice they named it twice: stumbling into dives on the weekends and then waking up on the subway halfway to Coney Island. Also working, socializing, or doing Yoga. Sometimes all at once. Mostly working on applications for grad school at the moment, which is pretty exciting.

I can't take issue with anything there. You sound like a pretty well-rounded, sociable, party-loving kind of dude. I hope you get punched in the face.

I’m really good at:
The usual man stuff-taking stuff off high shelves, stuck jars, fixing things that may not have been really broken in the first place. I usually do the dishes but I can make a number of excellent entrees and desserts. I'll occasionally notice when you've done something with your hair/shoes.

No, yeah, this is all solid stuff, with a subtle humor to it that gives the reader a taste of your personality. An ability to cook is dating gold, but I'm sure you know all about that, as you're probably sleeping under a blanket made entirely of live fashion models.

The first things people usually notice about me:
Tallish, and blue eyed which led to one reasonably memorable encounter: A probably crazy lady yelled at me, "YOU MAY HAVE BLUE EYES BUT THAT DOESN'T MAKE YOU BRAD PITT!" Pretty entertaining wait for the subway actually.

(And thats just like, your opinion lady.)

I love how the worst thing she could come up with was that you're not Brad Pitt. Yeah, that'll put you in your place. No, I can't think of any better putdowns. Yes, I hate you for it.

Yeah, the stuff you write there is just fine.

My favorite books, movies, music, and food:
I'll read anything I can on public transit including but not limited to The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, The Corrections, Everything is Illuminated, Watchmen, The Name of The Rose (very fun read once you get past the first 80 pages or so), I really like Thomas Pynchon's stuff but I can't ever explain what's going on in them.

I like watching movies, I don't think I've ever left one in the middle but some of my recent or older favorites would be Alien, Sideways, Up, Oldboy, In Bruges, Drag Me To Hell, and The Wrestler.

Most of my music these days comes from listening to KEXP (91.3 in NY till 12, then I'll switch to NPR), Gogol Bordello is awesome and they do pretty much the most amazing live show I've ever seen except maybe for Radiohead. Also Airborne Toxic Event, Animal Coolective, The Bird and the Bee, Bon Iver, Elliott Brood, Firewater, Fleet Foxes, Balkan Beat Box, The Decemberists, Neutral Milk Hotel, and pretty much any alt/rock/pop/punk that tickles me.

Oh I've also got really into True Blood lately. It's like I've drawn a line in a sand right past that show and up to that line I think vampires are awesome, BUT NO FURTHER. I did the same thing with Buffy back in the day.

I think garlic bread and lasanga's pretty much the best possible meal but when I go out my favorite is Indian food. I do not know why this is the case. OH DANG I realized a little while back that all my tomato plants got the blight and it really sucks.

I'd love to tell you you're a wordy jerkoff and you put too much stuff there, but you explained your choices in a way that makes them way more interesting then just a wall of text bunch of bullshit lists, like most of the other idiots usually put there.

The six things I could never do without:
1. Floss, brushing can keep your breath smelling good but real dental hygiene takes more work then that.

2. Something to read, I've studied nutritional information on discarded soda cans at times though I may have been uh impaired.

3. Sunglasses to remove dramatically. Replace that with a scarf to flutter in the wind once it gets colder.

4. Oxygen

5. My family awwww

6. Yoga classes-I have an awesome studio and I can't seem to get up and do it on my own. Unless I'm drunk, at which point I get hilariously suggestible (Stand on my head? NO PROBLEM!)

Good. Some true stuff, some amusing, probably true stuff that's explained in a way that portrays you as a fun-loving sort of fellow in addition to tall and sexy. Keep it as is, as long as you don't mind that none of the other poor bastards in NYC are going to get laid now, because of you.

I spend a lot of time thinking about:
Graduate school! What are they, and where do they come from?

The possibility that I traveled back in time to ~1944 and joined the navy. Seriously! Well no actually not seriously, but there's this one bar that makes me wonder...

I...don't really know what that means, but it makes me want to go out with you so I can ask about it, so that's probably good.

On a typical Friday night I am:
Drinking, laughing, rocking out and wandering around usually in about that order. Occasionally I wake up in Coney Island and that is much less fun.

All good stuff. Die in a fire.

The most private thing I’m willing to admit here:
In my work to date I've killed roughly 2000+ mice. It's for a good cause but I feel guilty every time.

Holy balls. That's kind of a downer. Don't get me wrong, I hate mice; had two of them infesting my apartment once and I would have waterboarded their babies if that's what it took to stop them from eating my lentils and shitting behind the couch, but 2000+ mice still makes me go whoah, dang. I'd uh, save any mention of the Mouse Holocaust until after the first date at least.

You should message me if:
Well if you're in PETA we probably won't get along that well. Otherwise if you're into meandering occasionally pointless discussions, finding cool new places and getting blotto in them, drop us a line.

Other than probably needing your rodent murdering to explain the PETA comment, this is all perfectly cromulent stuff.

So go get 'em, tiger. Just leave some chicks for the rest of us, okay dude? Seriously, screw you. My only comfort is that I live 3000 miles away from you and I'm hung like the Disneyland Monorail, and I'm still a little depressed anyway.

How about you, jerkoff? Got an OKCupid profile? Want me to tell you that it sucks, with a BAC well over the legal limit? Post a link to it in the comments or shoot me an email, and I'll get to it.

And here's all of my collected drunken love advice so far.

There is a Moral to this Story

2009-10-31T18:23:00.000-07:00

A long time ago, when the world was new and Celine Dion was still big at school dances, I was up late at night with the guys, watching infomercials. There really is no adequate excuse for this, but it had been a long day of hitting things with swords and suggesting that John's mother was less than choosy about her sexual partners. Also nothing else was on.

So.

Nad's, man. Yeah, the hair removal stuff that sounds like it's named after a pair of balls. No, I'm not sure why we decided to order some, but between us all it was only $5 per person, so horrible decision or not, it was at least thrifty.

Seriously, I still do not recall what train of thought dropped us off at the Hair Removal Gel station. Maybe Kurt thought he could attract more girls with a smooth, hairless back. Maybe it sounded like more fun than Everquest to John. Maybe, just maybe, $5 a head was worth the price of admission to watch Nate scream like a girl and bleed.

My money's on that last one.

I'm Drunk and Your OkCupid Sucks: Poo Biscuit? What?

2009-10-23T19:02:00.000-07:00

A plea for help from a man who calls himself Poobiscuit. What the hell, man:

Well, I've uploaded some new pictures (including those with other people!), so break open your booze and tell me what you think.

Pictures:
Immediate impression:
Your pictures are fucking TINY. Like, smaller than the profile page thumbnailed version. What the fuck, dude. My cellphone takes pictures bigger and clearer than those. Rectify that, asap. I can't even tell what your fuckin' face looks like. Also, I'm not sure most girls will respond well to The Shocker, once that picture is big enough that someone can actually recognize it. For the record, I love costume party pictures. It's nearly impossible to take a boring picture at a costume party, so fuckin' kudos on those.

I am the best, relaxed, and weird.

"Weird" is probably not an adjective you want to apply to yourself. "Weird" is the guy in the corner who eats paste, or the pudgy guy who insists on wearing an Indiana Jones hat everywhere. Don't ever be that fuckin' dude. Be something else.

My Self-Summary:
I just graduated from Northern Illinois University. Some of my favorite activities include sitting around, drinking, watching movies and/or TV, and playing the not study game. I also partake in sarcastically ripping on stuff, but in a joking and jovial manner. I get along with people with a great sense of humor.

I enjoy going to see rock shows, generally of the "small place featuring band no one's heard of" variety; any mosh pits are a plus. I'm a fan of going to some bars, though nothing that would be considered "upscale." Hell, what most would call "dives," I would call "Places of Interest." I prefer smaller, more intimate venues, where conversation can flow without the need to yell. I also like staying in, and enjoying beer and a movie, especially when it's cold out.

I'm looking for someone who enjoys hanging out, whether it be at home or out at a show. Also, it helps if they like beer; beer is awesome.

"Hanging out", isn't an activity. It's literally a lack of activity. Quadriplegics do it constantly. There's nothing wrong with it, but it's basically the most boring activity you could talk about engaging in. Ditto for "sitting around". "Watching tv/movies" isn't much better, as it's a passive activity rather than something that could tell us something about you. Might as well tell us about how much you like breathing and sleeping for all the good those will be doing you. Tell us all about your hobbies of maintaining your body's temperature and being subject to gravity.

Rock shows, on the other hand, are awesome and everyone who doesn't suck knows it. That middle paragraph is great. If you can expand on that, maybe with a few specifics, go crazy. Anyone who doesn't like live music is a stupid bitch and you don't need her anyway.

What I’m doing with my life:
Searching for jobs in an interactive marketing field. I'm sending out applications more or less daily, and hoping the economy stops sucking so I get hired.

I'm also trying not to have let the Cubs give me a heart attack, but I'm not optimistic on that front.

What I read: "Boo hoo, the economy is in the shitter and my favorite baseball team is a bunch of useless dildos."
Make the first bit a little less negative: "sending out applications daily to score a job in my field despite the economy", or some such. Make the shit job market an opportunity to show that you can be upbeat and ambitious despite difficult conditions. Everyone loves the plucky, hustling underdog, because he's got heart, and he's got balls.

Sorry your team fucking sucks. I'm sure she can sympathize on that front, so go ahead and leave it. Bond with her over your shared sports tragedy.

I’m really good at:
-making witty remarks; I love to pop a good zinger following good set-ups.

-remembering random sports trivia. I don't know why I'm good at this, but I am.

-kicking ass. Because someone has to be.

Everyone loves a witty son of a bitch, but it's a lot like telling people you're funny: show me, don't tell me, that you're a witty mofo. The rest is not particularly stand-out, but it isn't going to send anyone running. For the record, in person, on a date with a non-sports-fan, sports trivia is the dullest fuckin' thing you could possibly talk about. I figure you know that, but I'm just making sure, because, well, Internet.

The first things people usually notice about me
From a personality standpoint: my sarcastic replies, and my "high-falutin'" way of talking.

From a physical standpoint: my gangliness.

high-falutin'? Really? I'm not 100% sure what you're saying here, but if you ever try to chat up a girl and say something that brings to mind a top-hat and monocle, I will find out and I will slap you, because that is some goony, chick repellent bullshit. Insisting on using ten-dollar SAT words is just as bad. You're witty, right? Remember, brevity is the soul of wit, so be brief.

If that's not what you meant by "high-falutin'", for the love of God, keep it that way.

Also, there has to be a better adjective for your body than "gangly". Are you tall? Say that. Find something positive to say about your Ichabod Crane physique.

My favorite books, movies, music, and food:
Books: Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy, Good Omens, Batman comics, Pearls Before Swine

Movies: Batman Begins, The Dark Knight, V For Vendetta, Hot Fuzz, Superbad, Slingblade, Blazing Saddles, Alien, Aliens, Predator, Pulp Fiction, Reservoir Dogs

Music: Metallica, Pantera, System Of A Down, Rage Against The Machine, Megadeth, Dethklok

TV: Arrested Development, The Venture Bros., Harvey Birdman: Attorney At Law, Scrubs, South Park

Good. A few items per category, no wall of text, Dethklok rules.

The six things I could never do without:
1. Comedy; 2. Robots; 3. Beer; 4. Sweets; 5. Video Games; 6. The Devil's music

Good, varied list. Probably true without being boring, not the same stupid shit everyone else lists. I am angry that I can't find something angry to say about this, so fuck you.

On a typical Friday night I am
inviting the gang over for a night of drinks and video games (Mario Kart and Smash Bros. being the usual games of choice). Sometimes I mix it up by heading to another's place for the same stuff at a different venue. I'm also up for concerts, bars, and movies.

"at home playing video games" probably isn't the sexiest thing you could have answered with, but you've got it sounding like a social activity, with friends and drinking. "Demented and sad, but social", as the late John Hughes put it. I'd probably have less details about exactly what games were getting played, but that's because I'm 30 years old guy and slightly ashamed of sometimes liking video games, so that's entirely your choice. It's no biggie either way.

The most private thing I’m willing to admit here
I have no qualms about watching children's cartoons.

Not a bad confession. Anyone who seriously gives you shit for liking cartoons is probably a stupid ho, and you can tell her Nate said so.

You should message me if:
you're cool, and want to meet someone like yourself.

Pretty standard, not really all that interesting. If she's gotten this far and likes what she sees, it's not going to dissuade her, but I think it's a sqaundered opportunity to actually give her a reason to talk to you. Here are a bunch of the things I have suggested for this section, in the past. Most of them probably don't apply to you, but you get the idea:

You should message me if:
If you want to pit your robots against mine in a battle to the death.
If you wanna talk about space and shit.
If you wanna let me perform a 1-man raid on your dungeon.
if you change your mind, I'm the first in line. Honey I'm still free; take a chance on me.
If you need me, let me know, gonna be around.
If you've got no place to go, if you're feeling down.
If you're all alone when the pretty birds have flown.
If you think you can beat me at drunken Scrabble
If you're a terrible bowler, like me, but you don't care, like me.
If you don't think a man in a cowboy hat can make a baked ziti.
If you believe in fairies.
If you kick ass, figuratively or otherwise.

You can do anything with it. Suggest date activities, tell the reader what kind of lady you're looking for, quote ABBA. Sky's the limit.

I'm Drunk and Your OkCupid Sucks: Benny B is Fuckin' Funny

2009-10-05T01:23:00.000-07:00

A man known as Benny B emails, asking for advice:

Your liver is going to be left in shambles after all these, Nate.

http://www.okcupid.com/profile/RodFunmuscle/

Do mine first, you owe me after begrudgingly I teamed up with you to help defeat the Joker and Lex Luthor.

Little inside joke there from Benny, as my own OKCupid profile repeatedly claims that I'm actually Batman.

So.

Pictures: Good choice for the first one, I think. It's blurry and whatnot, but you look pimp as hell in that getup. Wear that shit more often, 'cause it's awesome. I'd say you could definitely use more pictures of you with friends, ideally ones where you aren't making kind of a retarded face, like you are in that last one. Unless you're actually retarded, in which case you have done an excellent job hiding it in those first 3 pics.

Self-summary:
Not bad starting out, I guess. It's probably good that you explain your username, because it sounded like some sort of reference to your dick, and it was making me a little uncomfortable.

I don't lie to friends.

I'm not sure that really belongs. People could misconstrue it as some kind of weird bitterness over someone else, like if your profile said "I'm not a dirty lying whore who accidentally sleeps with entire football teams, and also has turbo syphilis." or some such thing. Either way, it sounds kind of negative, so I'd toss it.

I like to think I'm a funny guy, though every dude who fills out one of these things probably thinks they are too. I have a couple credentials to back me up, though-- I've played at Acme Comedy Club and The Triple Rock Social Club. Plus all my friends totally tell me I'm, like, hilarious.

I think, considering that you've actually played at comedy clubs, that you can actually state that you're fuckin' hilarious without any wishy-washy bullshit like "I like to think", or "my friends tell me". I'd shorten it to something shorter and bolder, like:

I'm funny as hell. Every dude says that, I know, but for the record I've actually played at comedy clubs.
That's right ladies, I'm professionally funny.

...or whatever. My usual advice on saying that you're funny, though, is don't. It's like saying you're smart, or good looking: if you are, it will be immediately evident anyway, and if you're not, then saying so isn't going to fool anyone.

Also, for a guy who claims to be funny, your profile isn't funny at all. Not even a little. The best way to convince someone that you're funny is to be funny. If you claim in your self-summary that you're funny and then basically fail to even attempt humor in your profile, it comes off as a big ol' lie, and not even a good one. So in the end, I'd ditch any mention of being funny, and concentrate on actually being funny instead.

What I’m doing with my life:
I'm a graphic design student at Art Institutes International Minnesota. I'm going for my Bachelor's and have about 2 years left. It's going a bit slowly because I'm also working at a liquor store in Minnetonka. When I get the chance on Tuesday nights, I like to play guitar and sing at the open mic night at The Depot Coffee House. Open Mic at Acme Comedy Club on Mondays is another thing I like to go to, but I haven't played there lately.

It's a little dry. Not funny at all, but you knew that. Ditch the mention of how your job at a liquor store is making your bachelor's go slowly, unless there's some actual reason why you'd want to mention that (there isn't). You can leave the mention of open mic night at the comedy club in this part, because you're just mentioning it offhand, and not spending an entire paragraph pointlessly trying to convince us that you're funny.

I’m really good at:
Cheering people up, particularly those I care about. Also, I'm pretty damn good at making new people laugh. I don't know what it is, but when I meet a new group of people, I almost always get a good belly-laugh out of the whole lot.

I've also been told I give great hugs and greater back-rubs.

Can you please stop telling us that you're funny? I'd basically ditch this entire section, and replace it with something funny. And talking about how you give awesome backrubs comes off a little creepy.

The first things people usually notice about me:
My size. I'm a pretty big guy, and people have never been shy about asking me if I ever played football, or wrestled.

It's true, you're a big dude. That's fine and totally approp--

my sense of humor

FUCK.

My favorite books, movies, music, and food:
Books: John Dies at the End, 300 Pages of Crap,The Hitchhiker's Guide books, The Hawkline Monster, Holes, Born Standing Up, John Dies at the End 2: John and Dave and the Temple of X'al'naa''thuthuthu.

Movies: In Bruges, The Big Lebowski, No Country For Old Men, Snatch, Lock Stock and Two Smoking Barrels, Boondock Saints, Shaun of the Dead, Hot Fuzz, The Dark Knight and tons more.

Music: Tom Waits, Tenacious D, Louis Armstrong, Mos Def, Johnny Cash, Charlie Parker, A Tribe Called Quest, Beastie Boys, Ween and dozens more.

Food: Sesame Beef from Dragon Jade, Grape Slushies from Sonic, Deep Dish Pepperoni from Davanni's.

This section is pretty much filler crap on everyone's profile, so, fuckin' whatever. I would, however, maybe replace some of those books with titles that normal people might recognize. If you can figure out some way to make this section funny, please do so.

The six things I could never do without:
My Friends
My Guitar
Music
A good pair of jeans
Some solid shoes
My wits

Pretty standard crap. Guitar is good, since as far as I know girls like musical dudes. The rest is pretty boring. Which is fine, unless you want to demonstrate some humor, which would be excellent.

The rest of it is all right. Not great, not funny, but inoffensive and not super painfully dull. Probably a lot of squandered chances to be funny, which you should rectify.

Awesome but irrelevant: under Similar Users, you have a dude named Butt_Reynolds, which is a sweet as hell name.

Nate Gets Drunk and Gives Profanity-Laced Advice About OKCupid.com Profiles

2009-09-30T23:34:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time, there was an Internet dating site known as OKCupid.com, where people put up profiles, mostly awful ones, with the purpose of attracting members of the opposite sex. What these people planned to do at that point, is none of my damned business, but the sheer awfulness of some of these profiles really got to me. I'll be the first to admit that I know precisely dick about women, but dammit, I wanted to help anyway.

One day, on an Internet forum, I found a thread where people shared links to their respective depressing dating profiles, and gave each other online dating advice. I made an offer to give profiles a thorough going-through and give whatever advice I could come up with, as long as I was allowed to share it all here.

During none of this process, I vowed, would I be sober.

The first request arrived thus, from a man called Charninja:

Nate, you are my last hope! One of my ninja sex bots will deliver a bottle of 1958 Glen Garioch upon reception of your advice. Do what you will with the bot.

http://www.okcupid.com/profile/Exec_Chef

For the record, I prefer a 2009 Evan Williams. Whiskey's supposed to hurt a little.

First, standard picture advice:
Pictures of you with people, doing things. You have 3 pictures, and every single one shows not a single other person within 30 yards of you. That is a fucking problem, because this is what a lot of people look at first. You look like a solitary-ass motherfucker, and that's killing you. I look at 3 pictures of a dude who's all by himfuckingself, and in the back of my mind, I have already decided that this is a dude whom no one wants to hang out with. I could get into references to scientific studies, but fuck that--point is, we all subconsciously gravitate toward people who clearly already have lots of friends, and avoid people who do not, and your pictures are all saying "I am a dude whom no one is willing to stand next to long enough to take a picture", and that is fucking internet dating profile poison. If you have no activities in your life that involve other people in some context that could theoretically be photographed, then you are doing it wrong, and you need to go find some of those activities and do them, period, no excuses. Join a local kickball league or a hiking group, or go to a free rock & roll show, and once you're there and having a good fucking time being social, hand your camera to someone and they'll fucking figure it out.

My Self-Summary:
I am a graduate of NAU, with a degree in Hotel and Restaurant Management (hence the nic).

The self-summary is the first shit they read. It should immediately start out introducing you, your interesting positive personal characteristics, your quirks, your passions, the things that set you apart. You are not your university, and you are not your degree, and don't explain your username to us. Just delete this bit.

Little new to the scene, but I am more than happy to check stuff out.

What scene? Check what stuff out? I don't even know what that means. Fucking delete it.

I love hard rock, good food, the occasional pint, and gaming. I know it's such a chick magnet, but eh, let me have my Wii and I'll let you have your pink unicorn bumper-sticker.

See? Now we're getting into stuff that starts to give us an idea of who you are and what you're into. Make this your first paragraph. The stuff I bolded sounds like you're apologizing for liking gaming. Don't do that. If gaming is something that really is important to you and your life, mention it and let it fucking stand without apology or excuse or some shit about pink unicorns. Alternately, if your first instinct is to mention gaming like it's a personal fault that has to be compensated for, that means you know deep down that it is, and maybe you should take that realization and use it as a starting point for a meaningful conversation with yourself about whether or not gaming is something that's a positive force in your life, and how much your Xbox could fetch on Ebay.

I'm not the super outdoorsy type. I generally prefer kicking back with a book or watching tv, or surfing the net. People say going out for a hike never killed anyone, but they clearly haven't seen the statistics. I can appreciate nature, but when it comes to the hippie tree-huggers, bring on the chainsaws and the bulldozers. That's kinda how I am in life as well.

General rule of thumb: there should be nothing negative in this profile. What you do, what you are, what you like, rather what you aren't, and what you don't do, and what you don't like. This entire paragraph is basically you talking about how you hate nature and hiking, and it fucking sucks. I don't fucking like clowns, but I'm not bringing it up in my dating profile.

As far as being a romantic partner is concerned, I am more or less the Rock of Gibraltar.

I don't know what this is supposed to mean. Neither does the reader. Congratulations, you just compared your dating potential to that of an inanimate object.

That's probably not going to bring them running.

I'm just sayin'.

...that it's stupid.

I'm not the crazy, zany type, though I'm certainly capable of putting on a good show like one. I figure that the most individualistic thing I can do, instead of going goth or emo, is to simply do as I please.

This is another paragraph about what you're not. It doesn't really say anything or mean anything. Drop it.

I guess I should also say that I'm kind of an old school guy, way big on chivalry, ya know? The sort that throws my coat over a puddle, opens doors, pulls out seats, and fights off muggers using Marquess of Queensburry rules (where applicable, anyway)

I'm getting a very "I'm a nice guy" sort of vibe, and it's a little creepy. Also: Marquess of Queensburry? Really? No. Also, it's "Queensberry", if you were using it, which you're not.

I love to take a girl to the movies her choice of course)

This is textbook niceguy doormat pussy. I'm not going to get into it. Just, don't.

Also, for the record, movies are fucking awful for the purpose of initial dating. It's 2 hours in a dark room with no conversation, when you should have picked an activity that involved actually getting to know your date, which is the fucking point of dating.

and dinner out is always good for getting to know a person. I find that bars seem counter-intuitive for initially getting to know a person, due to the to intentionally loud music playing, but I am always open to ideas. I am also an avid shooter, so should anybody be up for that, it would be totally awesome too, whether we are romantically involved or not. Of course, I'm certainly up to trying just about anything.

This all crap about what kind of date you might maybe get around to taking a girl on. You're getting way, way ahead of yourself here, and it's pretty much irrelevant to the point of your self-summary, which is summarizing yourself. Also, anything about "we" sounds like you're already assuming you and the reader are going out on a date, which feels kind of creepy and way ahead of yourself, and gives me the fuckin' heebies. Just...lose that whole bit.

I've taken what is technically a business major, and while I don't have much money, I do know how to take care of it, or at least better than your average poli-sci or communications major.

Not that it would take much.

Translation:
"I'm poor. But haha, fuck poli-sci and communications majors." You see what you did there? You've managed to deprecate both yourself and poli-sci/communications majors. She might be a communications major. Or maybe someone she loves is. And you just insulted them, Restaurant Management guy. Good going.
Delete it.

What I’m doing with my life:
Right now, I am on the great Job Hunt. I'd had plans for moving to Phoenix, but it looks like I'm gonna have to earn/save a bit of money before I can move on. Ces't la vie.

Oh, but right now during off time, I do make the occasional crude comment on the forums. Work hard, play lazy, people.

Your entire summary of what you're making of yourself consists of:
1) "this place, where I'm living? And where you're living? Yeah, fuck it. I'm gonna leave it. And you."
2) "...except I don't have any money, so I can't. Yet."
3) some incoherent shit about the forum that no one cares about.

I’m really good at
Cooking is definitely one of my highest talents. I'm best with French, Italian, and traditional American cuisine, but give me a recipe and I can make anything.

That's cool. Keep it. Expand on it. Give us specifics. Adjectives. Tell us about your Coq au vin or fucking something. An ability to cook, and a passion for cooking, can be your hook, if it's really there. Tell us about something you're fucking amazing at. It's so good, your neighbors keep coming over and demanding to have some. You have to have a cigarette after eating it. And it's never exactly the same twice; you feel some sense of loss that the one you just made, you'll never get again, but you press on, knowing the next time it'll be something amazing; something new; something that will bring a tear to your fucking eye, it's just so fucking good.

I don't fucking know. I'm drunk. But give us something.

Reading is another passion of mine. I tend towards the comedic, but am quite comfortable with horror, sci-fi, and nonfiction. I'm a big, big fan of Terry Pratchett, and if you have never heard of him, go get something of his now, before his Alzheimer's really begins to kick in and we lose one of the best authors of the last 30+ years. Neil Gaiman is also one of the greats, as far as I am concerned.

Enjoying sci-fi is not a skill, it's not something you can be good at, and they fucking ask you about your reading preferences like 2 sections down from here.

I'm really good at seeing the merits and disadvantages of any viewpoint and will respect those of other people, so long they don't attempt to force those opinions on others. However, I have my own opinions and my own conclusions. By all means, I love a good debate, but everybody (worth talking to) knows it takes more than a flame war to change anyone's opinion.

Blah, blah, I'm super open-minded and respect everyone's points of view. Whatever. Not really a skill either. I'd drop it.

The first thing(s) people usually notice about me:
I'm rather a big guy, so it's kinda hard to miss me. The beard is also a defining physical characteristic. There's also the good, strong bass voice. I'm the next Barry White, baby.

That's...nothing spectacular, but there's nothing negative or particularly lame in it. Fine, leave it as is.

My favorite books, movies, music, and food
Discworld, Kung Fu Hustle, Rock, and BBQ

I say I like rock music, but that's just the most prevalent easily identifiable genre in my play list. Eclectic would be the best way to describe it, really. I have everything from Moonlight Sonata to the Mortal Kombat theme. Not much for rap, but I can appreciate good music in any form.

"I like all kinds of music" is lame and cliche and everyone says it and it's generally not really true anyway, and it doesn't matter because it's uninteresting to the max. Just list a few examples that give us an idea of the kind of rock music you usually like, and fuckin' move on, because everyone skims over this bit anyway except gaywads whose lives revolve entirely around a particular kind of music, and for the purpose of this conversation, fuck those guys.

The six things I could never do without
My sanity, my independence, books, the internet, humor, and the consumerist lifestyle.

Nothing particularly interesting, nothing particularly repelling. It's hard to really make this bit into anything interesting, so I'd leave it as is.

You should message me if:
You want to meet the anti-douchebag, and you aren't freaked out by a guy with a license to carry a concealed weapon.

1) "the anti-douchebag" is a phrase used solely by "nice guys" who are frustrated that being a doormat is failing to get them laid. So I'd avoid using it.

2) There's a reason why it's called "concealed carry". It's because you're supposed to keep it on the down low, Dirty Fucking Harry. She doesn't know you yet, man. Broadcasting that shit is just going to make her nervous. Every single girl in Arizona, given the choice between going out with Unknown Dude and Unknown Dude Who's Packing Heat, is going to pick the less terrifying option every time, which is the dude who's not got a literal firearm in his pants.

So go get to work on that thing, big scary dude with guns.

Holy Balls, Bill Cosby is Awesome

2009-06-06T17:26:00.000-07:00

Old, but awesome.

Al Gore, Eat Your Heart Out

2009-03-23T23:02:00.001-07:00

A young man desired to be greener
With regard to the use of his peener,
He's a sexual lion
Thanks to lithium ion
and his output is ten percent cleaner.

NATE GETS DRUNK AND REVIEWS THE MUMMY 3: CURSE OF SOMETHING SOMETHING EMPEROR

2008-12-26T04:55:00.000-08:00

THE MUMMY 3 is fucking awful.

i sweat ro vishnu, this is some seriously bad shit, and i say taht as someone who has a deep love of awful cinemas. I'm about as runk as I get, and I'm almost to the end of this fuckiing thing,, and i want to punch someone for making me watch ths, AND I OWN COOL AS ICE.

I just watched Death Race,m and that was citizen mothyjerfucking kane compared to this horseshit.

So I'm pretty sure there's no generic adventure movie cliche that Mummy 3: The Fufking Goddamn Dragon Enmperor has no utilized.

Step one: really bad guy is really bad a long time ago, gets cursed with a curse that imprisons him forever, UNLESS SOMEONE HAPPENS O AWAKEN HIM, IN WHICH CASE HE IS NGH UNfuckingSTOPPABLE. You know, because we lost the page in the spellbook that contained the STAB HIM IN THE FUCKING FACE AND KILL HIM curse, whoich would have been a no brainer here.

Step 2: millenia later, archaeologist digs up statue emperor who has been ingeniously entombed, despite no one liking him when he was an asshole despot. Also, there is a seccret society dedicated to awakening asshole emperor for vague world domination purposes, naturally. And there's a super ninja trying to keep emperor unfound, and super ninja turns out, naturally, to be hot girl.

step 3: dude (brendan fraser) is brought out of retirement to transport fancy artifact because he's the fucking best or whatever, abd vbecause we couldn'yt think of a smarter way to justify Brendan Fraser's presence here, which makes no sense because the archaeologist who digs up the emperor is his son, except senor fraser is clerly not old enough to have a 20 something year old son, and also rachel weisz's character is played by some other bitch who is clearly not raches weisz and FUCK THAT, seriously, 'cause she totally humped that guy in enemy at the gates and that was HOT.

step 3: bad guys hve plan that is the most insanely complex, easily defeated thing ever. Find statuefied emperor, find one of a kind jewel artifact thingy which has to be unlocked with blood from someone with a pure heart or qwhatever, and contains the water of life or some fucking thing, and then pour water of life on the emperor to bring him back to life. They were even going to revive the wrong guy, but the good guy kicked it out of bad guy's hand, and it landed on some other petrified asshole, who turned out to be THE ACTUAL EMPEROR WHAT THE FUCK OH NO HE LIVES GODDAMMIT WHY WHY WHY NOOOOOO

step whatever: Emperor fuckface takes off imexplicably in chariot, prompting nonsense and totally unnecessary chase scene. he could have stuck aroudn and just killed everyone. Dude can control the elements with the his fucking mind, and also he's jet fucking li and so he could just straight up ninja stab all of our bumbling asshole protagonists and stroll out of there, no biggie. Now he has to take other priceless artifact to mystery shrine in himalayas and it will show him the way to shangri-la. Why? fuck you, I'll get to that. So he starts hauling ass there. Our heroes have to chse him there, and they know a pilot who's the best ever, and just crazy enough to try it. no stupid cliche there, no sirree, never heard anything like it.

Anyway, the good guys get there first, abnd somehow know exactly what the emperor's plan is--he has to stick stupid artifact thingy into a tiny delicate cradle at the top of a 20-foot pillar, and that will lead him to shangri-la, which will put us one step closer to OH NOO DOOM. So all we need to do is send a dude up the pillar with a simple hammer and BINK knock the cradle off its perch and BINGO PROBLEM SOLVED FOREVER, but NOOOO, plan A is to wait for emperor and his lackeys to show up and then SHOOT THEM WITH GUNS, and the bckup plan is to blow up the pillar with loads of explosives that have 20-foot fuses that give the emperor, who, by the way, has control of the VERY ELEMENTS OF NAtURE, like half an hour to put out the fuses by throwing some snow on them.

continued after one more drink where is rum

----------

RUM FOUND

So as any asshole could have predicted, fraser and son's plans totally failed to stop jet li from strolling up and sticking Artifact B into cradle B, which pointed a laser to lead us to Shangri-La, where emperor jet li jumps into the jacuzzi of life and gains the power to raise his shitty 2000 year old army and turn into some kind of stupid dragon. A 3 headed dragon. Who still totally fails to kill a couple of totally ordinary stupid humans, who will somehow end up foiling his plans at the end. Oh, I'm sorry, was that a spoiler? Fuck you.

Step FUCK YOU: So he raises his long-dead statue army, who for some reason will only become awesome after crossing the Great Wall of China. Why? Fuck you, I don't know why and neither did the screenwriter. There's just no fucking reason for it other than to give us anotreh 20 minutes of CGI statues marching toward a wall against our 3 regular shmos and another army of long-dead victims of Emperor Fuckyou, who have revived for just this occasion.

Oh, also the super crazy pilot who is the best is named Mad Dog. Seriously? Mad Dog? Good fucking Lord.

Anyway, we end up in an underground temple for no good reason, and Encino Man and his son manage to team up and stab the emperor in the heart with the one mystical sword that can kill him, despite the established fact that Emperor Jet Li is a super ninja who can kill 4 trained armed assassins at the same time without breaking a sweat, and the entire extended Fraser family are imcompetent at FUCKIGN EVEYTHING. Then all the awakened armies dissolve into dust so we don't have any awkward shit 6to tie up, and the movie ends with everyone sustaining injuries no worse than a basic black eye.

I had to go back to the kitchen and mix up like 4 more drinks and then start the movie over again to finish thuis shit WHAT THE FUCK.

RATING: DO NOT SEE. DO NOT THINK OF SEEING. IF YOU WROTE THIS SREENPLASY I WILL PUNCH YOU HARD ECAUSE YOU ARE BAD

I'm Easily Entertained

2008-08-31T00:45:00.000-07:00

Very easily entertained.

Created by Piter Wilson's webcam stop-motion thingy. Go, make your own or see what other people have made!

stupid haiku: More Like Emozilla, am I right?

2008-08-24T15:40:00.000-07:00

I am Godzilla
No one appreciates me
stomp stomp stomp stomp stomp

I'm not an actor, but I played one on HBO.

2008-08-11T22:17:00.000-07:00

I am White Trash Man, starting at 0:11.

I can't believe they bleeped me out. That F-bomb was dynamite.

Nate Falls Down Some Stairs

2007-12-15T02:58:00.000-08:00

I really don't have anything to say, really-- it's just me getting pushed down some stairs.

Thumbs up!

Free: a haiku

2007-11-30T12:28:00.000-08:00

~
bounding through rain, grass,
by gravestones, frowning black suits;
unburdened by pants
~

Less Vague Horoscopes for the week of 10/22/2007

2007-10-18T03:36:00.000-07:00

Aries (March 21-April 19):
You will find that your fishtank is in need of attention. I suggest taking a look at the pump first.

Taurus (April 20-May 20):
You will meet a mysterious stranger this week, and then he will steal your car at gunpoint. You might want to try a different route to work on Monday.

Gemini (May 21-June 21):
Your girlfriend is seeing someone behind your back. It's that guy with the mustache.
No, he's not really gay.
Yeah, I know, it's a really gay mustache, but that doesn't change the fact that he's definitely hitting that.

Cancer (June 22-July 22):

2% milk
cereal
onions
AA batteries
peanut butter (crunchy, we still have plenty of the creamy)
Astroglide
handcuffs
cottage cheese

Leo (July 23-Aug. 22):
Don't put that in your mouth. No, don't, I said.
You are so disgusting.

Virgo (Aug. 23-Sept. 22):
That really is an impressive set of genitals you have there. Don't look now, there's nothing you need to worry about--I'm just saying. Doubly so if your name rhymes with "bnate" Go get 'em, tiger.

Libra (Sept. 23-Oct. 23):
You will have a challenge to overcome at work this week-- step up and meet it head on. Tell that fatty Jenna that you'll slash her tires if she doesn't get her nose out of your business with Felipe-- She will discover a newfound respect for you, and maybe stop stealing all the orange M&M's out of that ugly-ass bowl on your desk. I certainly hope your kid made that in ceramics class, because it looks like you're trying to hide a pile of vomit by covering it with delicious candy.

Scorpio (Oct. 24-Nov. 21):
Snape kills Dumbledore.

Sagittarius (Nov. 22-Dec. 21):
Nedroid.com. You're welcome.

Capricorn (Dec. 22-Jan. 19):
I know the results don't come in until Tuesday, but I just wanted to let you know. I'm sorry, Bill, you're HIV positive. I'm going to also recommend going to Nedroid.com--it might not make the AIDS go away (or maybe it will, who knows), but you'll feel better anyway.

Aquarius (Jan. 20-Feb. 18):
Your neighbor may come over to borrow something today. It's sugar, and you left it behind that gigantic sack of rice. By the way, when did you think you were ever going to eat that much rice without the help of an entire family of Asians?

Pisces (Feb. 19-March 20):
It's always a good time to move forward. This is not figurative. The light has been green for 4 seconds already, and you're holding people up who are trying to get somewhere. Asshole.

Arctic Circle Jerks Part 4: Live Free or Die Jerks

2007-09-10T06:00:00.001-07:00

For anyone just tuning in:
Arctic Circle Jerks
Arctic Circle Jerks part 2: Circle Harder
Arctic Circle Jerks part 3: Jerks with a Vengeance

When we last left off, Chris's engine was having water trouble, and our heroes had devised a daring plan involving a plastic bottle and some zip-ties to keep the bike running.

Will it work?

Yep.

Will our heroes get eaten by bears?

Nope.

The fender extension worked just fine, and the engine fired right up on both cylinders after Chris put it all back together, and we took off again.

Sup, dog?

Chillin, yo.

Word. Keep on keepin' on.

Word. Let's roll, C.

And on we rolled.

How does engine type correlate with sexual preference?

Oh, well okay then.

And so we rode on. And then we had to stop again, because holy crap what is that?

Excuse the spots on my lens--it was raining at this point and there wasn't any way to keep it dry.

It was cold and rainy and all we wanted to do was finish getting to Prince George so we could put up camp and sleep, but this was the most incredible rainbow we'd ever seen; it was brilliant in a way the cameras just couldn't capture, like a multicolored laser shooting out of the ground, pointing at a magical pot of gay somewhere over the horizon.

But we managed to eventually shut our gaping mouths and fight on through the torrential rain that produced that rainbow, and a few hours later we had camp set up at Goji's place.

We woke up at Goji's, packed up our crap, talked to Goji about some magical Chinese herbal roofies or something that he wanted to share with us, and then took off.

At this point, I had realized that my chain and rear sprocket were both worn as damn--the sprocket teeth had been worn thin and sharp, and the chain was having to be tightened and lubed at almost every gas stop, it was stretching so quickly.

Nate's Ass: Status sexy.

And we met a man named BigHat McBallsChin.

No, I have no idea why they call him that.

I think this was the day when Chris's GPS actually fell off his bike while we were cruising--I guess Chris hadn't reapplied the zipties yet that day. We stopped and went back, and wouldn't you know it, the stupid thing was still working. So we strapped it back on and kept moving.

We switched bikes once between gas stops, just for some variety, and when we came to our next stop, it was like there had been an oil explosion somewhere around the aft end of Chris's bike's motor. There was oil on the shock, spring, swingarm, centerstand, rear header pipe, everywhere. Terrified, I went to the local auto parts place and got some thicker oil, oil stabilizer, and silicone for emergency leak patching. We spent a few hours trying to figure out what the F, and never could figure out where it was really coming from. So we topped her off and kept going and hoped this wasn't going to strand our asses up here to get assaulted by lonely, amorous moose.

Turns out after that first unexplained oil explosion, the oil loss slowed to barely a trickle, so we'd throw in a few drops at every gas stop, and it never gave us any more trouble. I think we ended up deciding it was the countershaft seal, but it never tried to recreate the Exxon Valdez incident again.

We made it to our friend Mike's place in Burnaby, BC, and I was jonesin' for some hot food, so Mike's slow-moving spaniel was starting to look tasty.

Then Mike distracted me with some real food, and managed to save his dog. Mostly. We cleaned ourselves up and took off for a night on the town in Vancouver.

Hey, a camera!

Old school! I wonder if anyone's done the Dalton Hwy on one of these.

Vancouver at night:

On the right is Mike, who kicks ass. To the left, not shown: a man urinating in public.

and here's our group, minus Chris the photographer.

Code names: The Revisionist, Mortal Wombat, Nathaniel T Kittenstomp III, and Man With Beard (Mike).

and if we were all in a band, this would be our album cover photo:

Nate: Easily Distracted.

Crotch: Present and accounted for.

Fill with care, indeed. Reminds me of how I feel about your mom, Chris.

Bridges: just another reason for Nate to make the Unnecessary Angry Face.

There's no way a caption could possibly improve this picture.

Jalapeño poppers, meet The Angry Face.

There was actually no reason to have an angry face. We had much Canadian beer, walked around town a lot, and ended up at some fancy restaurant, where we had poutine.

Poutine, for those who don't know, is a Canadian thing that's a huge bastard pile of fries, drenched in brown gravy, and topped with melty cheese curd. It's delicious, and probably took years off my life, and could only be improved with the addition of bacon. But we were in Canada, dammit, so to the hell with healthy eating!

I highly recommend it.

The next morning, Chris took off early and hauled ass, so he could meet some work friends in Oregon. I slept in and took my time, and found this, when I approached the border:

Miles of it.

It turns out that morning was the morning of the Glasgow/London airport bombings, so they turned the border dial down to Slow As Frozen Shit Running Uphill. It took me 5 hours to get across that thing, so in the meantime I turned off my bike and walked around distributing Coffee Crisp candy bars to my fellow motorists before they melted all over the insides of my saddlebags. One lady gave me some bottled water and an apple in exchange--God bless Canada. Everyone got out of their cars and hung out--it was like a cocktail party on a beautiful sunny day, except it took place in a gigantic traffic jam.

I eventually made it to the border, and the border crossing asshole confiscated my gigantic 1kg bag of dried pepperoni sticks, because I guess we're not okay with Canadian beef anymore. Screw that guy, twice. I called him unpublishable things under my breath, and then headed to Eugene, Oregon, to Susie's place, without incident.

Susie is for some reason deathly afraid of my camera, and is now a brunette:

Chris caught up with me there, and all three of us crashed together on the futon that night (in separate sleeping bags). Chris managed to get this shot of me before he left in the morning, so now I have proof that once I was in the same bed as a girl.

I stuck around that day, because Susie was having a potluck for other Couchsurfing members that night, and because I don't have a real person job that requires me to be available at any particular time, like Chris does.

I gave Susie a moto ride around town, picking up tiki torches and other things that I would not advise carrying on a bike, and then I helped her pound in a support for a fence, while she commented on my form:

Later, Steve arrived to surf Susie's couch that night, and also share in the potluck festivities There's him on the right:

As it turns out, Steve is my long-lost brother who lives in Chico, CA. He also has a cheap adventure bike (KLR650) held together mostly by bungees, and a traveling beard, and by a very strange coincidence, we have the same military-surplus rifle from Big 5 Sporting Goods, which I was thinking about bringing to fend off bears, and which he suggested I bring to fend off bears. We were finishing each other's sentences within 15 minutes of meeting. It was kind of strange.

The potluck went well. I set off some fireworks, and we all got good and drunk on Susie's mojitos, and everyone who attended thinks that Susie and Steve and I had a threesome later(we did not, in fact, at any time, have a threesome).

But I eventually managed to tear myself away from Susie and the charming town of Eugene, and headed off the next morning, equipped with the newest Feline Positioning System navigation technology.

That's cutting edge stuff, folks.

But after another uneventful day, a stop-off in San Fran at Ben's place that involved some incredibly gay karaoke and a piñata, and another day of cruising down the coast, I was home.

I don't think I've ever been so happy to see the Pacific Ocean:

When I pulled into the driveway, my bike was offially done running for a while:

The rear tire was down to damn near zero tread: toasted.

The chain was stretched way beyond the "replace now" point, to the "you should have replaced this a few thousand miles ago" point: toasted.

The rear sprocket wasn't just worn as hell, it only had half its teeth left; the rest had broken off between here and San Francisco: definitely toasted.

The sprockets and chain, I'd been tightening and lubing at every single gas stop since the Canadian border to keep them from falling apart. 200 miles farther and I wouldn't have made it.

So now the long, painful (for my ass) adventure is over, and I'm back home in Los Angeles. There are no insane black flies, or torrential downpours. I can have three meals a day, none of which have to be trail mix or beef jerky, and I have a choice of more than two shirts, and they're nearly all clean. Shoes and pants are purely optional, and I can drink things with ice in them, out of cups and not a Camelbak that makes everything taste like Wild Turkey 101. I get to sleep on a real bed, instead of next to Chris in a tiny 35-year-old backpacker tent that may or may not be leaking rain on my face.

But sometimes I wonder if that's what I really want.

For all its difficulties and discomforts, the road felt like home. Two wheels, the endless road, and a leaky blue tent were all I had, but they were all I needed. I always had a good night's sleep, no distractions, and the time and space to really think, and now I don't have those anymore. Left them out on the road, I suppose.

I just hope they're still waiting for me when I get back there.

Arctic Circle Jerks Part 3: Gravel, Burgers, and Engine Trouble in the Rain

2007-09-05T01:29:00.000-07:00

For those just joining us:
Arctic Circle Jerks: Part 1
Arctic Circle Jerks: Part 2: Graffiti, Firewater, and Gravel

So we woke up in Fairbanks and took our time with breakfast (peanut butter and Pop-Tarts, Breakfast of [Poor] Champions), because I'd allotted an entire day to get to the Circle, only 200 miles away.

While we were in fairbanks, some guy in a truck next to us at a light started revving his engine and looking over at us, like he wanted to race.

We let him race himself, since we were in the left hand turn lane. He wasted at least $20 in rubber and didn't really go anywhere. Between him and the Walgreens cashier with the serious fem-stache, this place is obviously filled with the best and brightest humanity has to offer.

Good times. A few trees and clouds later:

and we were at the beginning of the infamous Dalton Highway.

Chris, ready to tackle this thing on his streetbike. How he fits in regular sized pants, I'll never know:

Crotch is intact and operational. Let's do this.

This is the picture Wikipedia has for the Dalton: looks about right.

Here's some of the sort of road we spent most of the Dalton dealing with:

Nate is slightly dismayed by all this gravel, and doesn't know what the F.

All he knows is fuck gravel.

At this point, the infamous Alaska Black Flies had finally shown themselves. As soon as we stepped off our bikes and removed our helmets, we had about a second of peace, and then we were surrounded by a cloud of these tiny black assholes. Thousands of them, all trying to climb inside our noses and mouths and eyes, and the 98% DEET we had all over us barely slowed them down--these bastards eat DEET for breakfast. So we took off before we could be their lunch.

That's my excuse for having so few pictures of the Dalton. Every time we stopped, they attacked.

So after the first few miles of dirt road, we switched bikes so we could share the terrifying experience of riding it on the SV, just for giggles. It was quite a sight, me trying to ride a sportbike like it was a motocrosser--standing up, elbows out, sliding the rear all over the place. Except for the potholes, it was fun, in a demented, masochistic sort of way.

We stopped at the Yukon River crossing to fill up, since gas stations were about as rare as sanity up here. We loaded our Camelbaks up with ice and water, and tried to hit on the cashier girl.

How she resisted my grizzled charms, I'll never know:

Down the road, we pulled off to get some shots of Finger Mountain, and for me to exaggerate about the rocks we had to get through, and also the size of my johnson:

Thumbs up, Finger Mountain!

Crotch Status: Operational

Take that, Finger Mountain.

And here's finger mountain unmolested. Not really much of a mountain, truth be told.

...and back to the road.

There were a few construction portions where the road was covered in at least 6 inches of jagged, pool-ball-sized gravel. That was the worst-- neither bike's front wheel would stay put in that crap, and we were forced to follow a pilot truck that was going about 5 MPH, which did not help. These sections were the ones infamous for shredding tires and sending bikers back to Fairbanks on a tow truck, but somehow we escaped any such disasters.

Anyhoo, 17 miles past Finger Mountain there was this:

Awww yeah. That's the stuff.

We took some pictures with the sign to prove we were there:

...of course, one of our trusty bikes:

...and one of me jumping off a rock trying to look like I'm sitting on top of the world:

This is Lisa:

She works for UAF and was doing some kind of recreation study, giving questionnaires to travelers and whatnot, so we kept her company for a while.

We didn't add our mark to the back of the Arctic Circle sign, but we admired the handiwork of those who came before us.

And I read about some nature crap:

After dicking around for a few hours, we decided to start heading back so we could get a head start on some of the obscenely long days we had scheduled ahead of us, and maybe get some hot food for the night.

We stopped so we could take a closer look at this Alaska Pipeline:
Limited access, blah blah whatever.

I got your limited access right here, buddy.

You say pipeline, we say urinal.

Would these count as evidence of trespassing in court? Maybe we shouldn't be posting so many of them.

Seriously though, that's one big pipeline. GOD BLESS THE USA

"Why Chris, I do believe I have a gigantic pipeline emerging from the fly of my pantaloons!"
"You know, Nate, I have some recollection of a similar comment that your mother said last night regarding my own trousers."
"To that level of wit I truly have no answer. Touché, my friend."

Anyway, enough screwing around, back on the road.

And then it started raining, which was interesting.

And by "interesting", I mean "the only possible way to make the Dalton any more terrifying".

But we made it 60 miles anyway, and stopped at the Hot Spot "restaurant" for dinner, where I had the most obscenely large hamburger ever:

Seriously, it was ginormous. It extended an inch past the bun all the way around, and was a good 2cm thick at least--I'm guessing a pound of meat. This was a burger you could use to beat a man to death with, and then feed a family of four.

F you kitty, this is my big-ass burger!

We made camp right there by the Hot Spot, hoping that the smell of delicious burgers didn't attract any bears:

The ground was impenetrable, so we had to go find big rocks to replace our useless tent pegs.

Take THAT, tent!

obligatory "epic motorcycle picture with top-of-the-world sunset in the background:

Tomorrow: the Long Way Home.

We woke up the next morning, filthy and fly-bitten. Turns out 32 year old metal tent zippers start losing teeth when you pull them out of retirement for some roughin' it.

Our stuff was pretty dirty at this point, mostly just dried mud instead of the furry coat of dead bugs we had before. Here's my setup, complete with "WASH ME" and disgustingly dirty emergency spare helmet:

...and Chris's bike, which is normally quite a handsome machine:

Here's my emergency spare gas, a Powerade container.

The vast majority of plastic soda/water bottles are made of polyethylene, which is the same stuff my gas tank is made of, so it may not be DOT approved, but it's perfectly safe to use in a pinch, at least with a nice strong thick bottle like this one.

So we took off, back down the shitty gravelly Dalton, which, now that we had time for pictures, looked mostly like this:

Sometimes it would get a little shittier like this:

We'd show you the really big sharp stuff, but we were too scared to stop while we were actually going through it. So go ahead and pretend that I just posted pictures of us climbing mountains of jagged obsidian with our bikes strapped to our backs or something. It was approximately that manly, I assure you.

This was a pretty common sight for us, old guys on BMW GSs and slightly less old guys on KTMs. They thought Chris and I were fuckin' nuts for taking a streetbike up there. We told them our next project was doing the Dakar Rally on a Segway.

But eventually we reached proper tarmac, at the Elliot Highway.

Oh God yes, pavement.

I think I just peed myself a little.

Our trip off the paved roads had wreaked havoc with Chris's GPS cradle, and the power connection was only working intermittently, so Chris anchored that little shit down with a ziptie to make it work.

It continued to give us problems, though. Our solution? More zipties, of course.

2 Zip Ties: Serious Business.

We still had plenty of energy due to the head start we'd given ourselves the night before, so we went right through Fairbanks and kept going, until we stopped for dinner in Tok (pronounced "Toke"), Alaska.

A friend on an online forum suggested we try the pizza at Fast Eddy's, and since it was about the only restaurant in town, wasn't exactly a difficult choice:

Hot food! Yeehaw!

Pizza so good, you'll catch the Down's:

It's just...so beautiful.

They were all sold out, but this might be the greatest piece of Mountie-related art I've ever seen, and dammit, I want one.

We ended up going all the way to Alcan, just on the Alaska side of the border, and camping in the rain.

32-year-old backpacker tent: mostly waterproof. mostly.

I kid you not, we had to pay 12 dollars to camp in this muddy, sloped "campsite". Don't get me wrong, it was probably worth that just for the hot showers, but referring to this generator and tire graveyard as a "campsite" is a bit of a stretch.

As soon as the rain subsided enough the next morning, we packed up our crap...

...and booked it out of that place. Other than the hot Southern blonde working the front counter, there just wasn't any reason to stick around that hole any longer.

A bit down the road, our first mechanical issue of the trip struck, and we had to stop to take care of it.

It was the dreaded Wet Twin becomes Thumper Syndrome, where the front fender isn't long enough, and the front wheel throws water up into the engine and drowns the front spark plug, turning a 650cc Twin into a really shitty 325cc Single. It's pretty common on the SV, and a lot of people get fender extensions to prevent it.

"A lot of people", meaning "a lot of people who are not Chris".

So Chris cursed and started removing parts to get at the problem area while i provided encouragement and dicked around with his camera, which was much nicer than mine:

Chris managed to get most of the water out of there, clean the area up a bit, and displace the rest of the water with some WD40 (the WD stands for Water Displacement--go figure), and we carved up a bottle and ziptied it in place, for a homemade fender extension that I think Macgyver would be proud of:

Will it work?
Will our heroes get eaten by bears?
How does engine type correlate with sexual preference?

Tune in next time to find out!

Circle Jerks 4: Live Free or Die Jerks (the last part)

Arctic Circle Jerks Part 2: Graffiti, Firewater, and Gravel

2007-09-05T00:08:00.000-07:00

Arctic Circle Jerks: Part 1, for those just joining us.

So anyway, we looked around for something to siphon gas from or whatever, and then made elaborate plans to put all of Chris's gas in my tank so I could make it to a side road 30 miles up that led to a station 20 miles off the main road, and then bring back my full tank plus all 3 ItzaGasCans full so we could both make it to the next station down the road.

As it turns out, though, there was another open station not more than 5 miles down the road that wasn't on my map. This is because my map was a copy of the Milepost from 2003 (I am a genius), which was woefully out of date with regard to where fuel was.

So we filled up our tanks plus one of the emergency cans, just in case:

and Chris transformed into a ninja, with his new fleece cold weather gear and an official Harley-Davidson balaclava he picked up in Prince George. Note that the gas is $1.21 per litre:

We finally made it to Fort Nelson that night, where we had not managed to find a Couchsurfing host, so we put up our tent at a campsite at the edge of town, but not before visiting the local liquor store--it had been a really long and painful day and there's no way we were going to end it sober.

Have I mentioned my seat yet? The Suzuki DR650SE has the worst seat I've ever had the misfortune to do any distance on. To give you some context on this statement, I once did a round trip from LA to San Fran on this:

Yes, that seat is a license plate. The padded thing is a backrest. The bike's name was Gary. And that seat wasn't as bad as the godawful thing on the DR. I don't have a big ass by any reasonable ass measure, but the seat on the DR had at least an inch and a half of my ass hanging off each side of it, and was hard as a rock. So those first few days of the trip, I think I had some idea of what it feels like after some of the bad prison lovin'. Eventually I had the genius idea to turn that self-inflating sleeping pad into a ghetto air-filled seat cushion, which still wasn't all that great, but improved greatly on the alternative.

So I was still getting it prison style, but it was the lonely prison sex now instead of the angry prison sex, which is to say, with more lube and less punching. At this point I'd take what I could get.

Which brings us back to the need to drink. We picked up a bottle of Dr. McGillicuddy's Fireball Whisky and opened it up after we had settled in for the night.

Chris, Nate:

Meet Dr. McGillicuddy:

Truly, a pleasure to meet you.

and this is our tiny 32-year-old backpacker tent, set up there in Fort Nelson:

So the next morning, we had some trailmix, shared stories of hilarious sexual misadventures with each other's moms, and we were off, heading for Whitehorse:

We stopped at a small turnout to get some shots of the gorgeous scenery out here in the far outskirts of nowhere:

Hey, is that graffiti?

Nope, that's a shitload of graffiti!

"Dana Tubman smokes fatties with Brad"--kickass.

"Miller Mayes smells like [picture of poop] POOP"--I love the dedication to the message here, where they illustrated it, just in case you were not at all familiar with poop. Mad props, yo.

What can I say, I was inspired. So I whipped out a blue Sharpie and added my own, which I had spent the last 2 hours composing in my head:

There once was a native Alaskan,
Whose ass could be had for the askin'--
They say her caboose
Could handle a moose,
But had odors in dire need of maskin'.

I actually composed a second limerick as well, which was incredibly clever but so dirty it offended even me, so I'm not going to share that one. It really is that bad.

So we kept on, and passed Muncho Lake, which was gorgeous:

and then the famous Signpost Forest, in Watson Lake, BC, made from thousands of stolen roadsigns from all around the world, sort of like a frat house without any house or frat boys. Or beer, which I could have used at that point:

A while down the road, I had to pee. Bad. I kid you not, this was not a planned photo op--I stopped, whipped it out, and was peeing long enough for Chris to stop his bike, get off, see that I was pissing, start laughing that it was taking so long to finish, and THEN pull off his helmet and gloves, dig out his camera and take a picture, and then bust out laughing again because he seriously couldn't believe it. I must have been really using the Camelbak that day, because I am not exaggerating when I say that it took me a good 90 seconds at max flow rate to fully relieve myself:

I didn't even take the time to lose the helmet, that's how bad I had to go.

Man, that was awesome.

Anyhoo, we stopped in Whitehorse, Yukon that night and couchsurfed with a charming lady named Mel:

She let us cook bison burgers on her stove and use her internet and bring all our crap inside from the cold:

So I figured I'd repay her by letting Chris wash the dishes:

We crashed on her couches, and then woke up as cheery could be:

...and took off into the morning, heading for Fairbanks, Alaska.

I could probably just replace a lot of these pictures with the statement "and there was more nature stuff", but that just wouldn't properly communicate just how much fuckin' nature we passed. Anyone who likes space and trees should come up here, because this part of the world is big as damn.

Big as damn.

Here's Chris, showing the ideal position for super-long-distance riding on a sportbike. Laying on the tank, feet hooked over the passenger pegs. Works pretty well, although it looks strange.

Also, by this point Chris had gotten wise and gotten himself a Camelbak as well. I don't think either of us would attempt another serious road trip without one.

Speaking of big as damn:

I think that's Kluane Lake. It's pretty fuckin' large.

Gratuitous "parking in a no parking zone" shot:

Chris takes a squeegee to his bike:

I don't bother. We've been slaughtering bugs by the handful for the last 2 or 3 days, and we will continue to do so for a while, so I'll just let it be for now:

In retrospect, maybe I should have at least scraped off my headlight - there wasn't much light coming through the mass of dead bugs at that point.

The sky was angry that day, my friends, but I've never seen it more beautiful:

The roads had only started to get shitty the day before, on our way from Fort Nelson to Whitehorse. Discontinuous permafrost and frost heaving tear the shit out of the roads, so the Alaska Highway, which is what we were on for a huge portion of the trip, is always under construction. And by "under construction", I mean "covered in 2 inches of loose gravel for some fucking reason".

If you're in an RV or a truck, it's no big deal, even though the retarded RV drivers slow down to about 30 over the stuff anyway. On a dualsport bike with 80% street-oriented tires, it's pretty shitty. On a sportbike, it's terrifying, like skating on marbles. Not including the infamous Dalton Highway, we probably did at least 80 miles of shitty terrifying gravel construction roads, and we did not particularly enjoy them:

After enough of that shit, Chris was considering lighting himself on fire with his Bag O' Gas (which is what those cardboard gas cans become after some rain) as a rational alternative to more gravel riding:

As a bonus, the weather started getting exciting somewhere around Fort Nelson. It would be a gorgeous sunny day, birds singing and moose humping at the side of the road, and then the road would change direction all of a sudden and put you right under a gigantic pouring raincloud. 20 minutes later, you'd turn a corner, head down into a valley, and it would be that gorgeous day again. Through most of upper BC and the Yukon, this cycle ended up repeating sometimes 12 times a day.

On the upside, though, the periodic rain helped wash the layer of dead bugs off my faceshield. Hey, glass half full! (Full of bugs.)

Anyhoo, we made it to Fairbanks late that night, after 590 miles of gravel and rain. We stopped at a Fred Meyers to pick up some food and other supplies, and our lady cashier had a mustache. I guess that's just how they roll here in Alaska.

And then we ate here:

Northernmost Denny's in the world. And we ate there. Take that, Lewis and Clark.

Then we set up our crap in a campsite in town:

and passed the hell out.

Tune in next time for the last leg up to the Arctic Circle, and the start of the long stupid journey back home!

Arctic Circle Jerks 3: Jerks with a Vengeance

Arctic Circle Jerks:In Which Chris and Nate Get Drunk and Ride North, Part 1:L.A. to McLeod Lake, BC

2007-07-28T05:59:00.000-07:00

Ghost Rider: Wait, What the Crap Was That?A review, and public service announcement

2007-03-03T05:48:00.000-08:00

Oh, I'm sorry, I thought I was watching a Nick Cage Movie, not trying to test my mental pain tolerance. Seriously, I want to cry. I will never get those 2 hours of my life back. I feel cheated out of time that would have otherwise been wasted anyway.

First of all, this movie was loaded chock full of stuff that I like. I like motorcycles. I like comic book/superhero movies as a general rule, especially the ones starring heroes that are a little bit bad. I like motorcycles. I like fire. I like motorcycles. Sometimes I like Nicholas Cage. I like Eva Mendes.

Oh yeah, Eva Mendes. Good times.

...

Anyway, Ghost Rider. I just don't know what to say. Somehow they took all that rad stuff and put it together into something terrible that I would like to light on fire and then pee on, but not until it's good and burned up, because otherwise it would just be a little bit charred and peed on, whereas my goal would be total eradication by fire. Plus, pee.

The whole time, I was hoping that all this badness was leading up to some sudden climax of awesomeness that would snatch victory from the jaws of defeat, but no, it ended up just a collection of nonsense plot points in between some nonsense fight scenes and a bunch of shit on fire.

I know I should be giving concrete examples instead of just saying it's bad in a lot of different ways, so I will, because I can imagine my English teacher telling me to, not that I paid a lot of attention to anything in that class except her hilarious British accent.

When our hero Johnny Blaze: Stunt Motorcyclist first turns into the Ghost Rider, he tears ass through town as a flaming skeleton on a flaming motorcycle, going so fast that everything near his path is lit on fire, thrown into the air, melted, or exploded by the shock wave. Then he kills a mugger, which is not at all relevant to my point. The next morning, the cops arrive to find a trail of destruction that could only be laid by a very angry atomic fire tornado earthquake. At the sight of this level of catastrophic wreckage, any normal human would be immediately rending their clothing and wondering where they might locate some sackcloth, ashes, and maybe some virgins to appease what is obviously a very very angry God, or possibly Chuck Norris. Instead, the investigating officer's response seems to be Huh. Looks like the town was laid to waste by some sort of unspeakably violent supernatural power...Hey look, a license plate. I bet it was that guy who jumps motorcycles over stuff! Whew, that was a tough one! So, apple fritter or bear claw?

And it actually gets stupider from that point on, I kid you not. The specifics would make you annoyed, and probably a little bit stupider.

But it's all worth it in the end if I manage to prevent you from letting this movie kick your brain right in the balls. That's my public service to the world, and you're welcome. All I ask is that you use your turn signals once in a while, jackass. Is that too much to ask? Is it?

Gender Studies and Poop Math: Together at Last

2007-01-25T20:52:00.000-08:00

It amazes me how some people really manage to get their panties in a bunch over silly things sometimes, like whether or not guys leave the seat up after peeing.

I've heard ladies put forth the argument that if they come into the bathroom and a man has left the seat up, the lady might end up accidentally sitting in cold water if she didn't check to see where the seat was, but I have little sympathy for people who don't pay attention to what they're doing. I have also heard it said that, since men sit down to poop and women always sit down, the seat spends most of its time down, and so men should always leave it down. It's a better argument, but I still find it rather simplistic, and lacking in numbers. I think it's time to put this thing to rest, once and for all, through the power of mathematics:

Let's assume for the sake of this argument that when we're going to the head, 75% of the time we're peeing and 25% of the time we're pooping, as that seems to be about my usual ratio and it makes the math relatively easy.

That means the girlies are sitting 100% of the time, and the guys are sitting 25% of the time and standing 75% of the time. Which is to say, the seat needs to be up 75/200ths=3/8ths of the time, or ~38% of the time, assuming that women and men are roughly equal in their usage of the john.

Now, if everyone just leaves the seat the way it is when they're done:

The ladies will have to move the seat 3 out of 8 times, as they need it down 100% of the time and 3/8ths of this toilet's uses will have left it up. Out of 32 bathroom trips, she will have to touch the toilet seat 12 times.

The men, if looking to drop the kids off at the pool (1/4 of the time), will similarly have a 3 in 8 chance of having to put the seat down. If they're tinkling (3/4ths if the time), however, they will have a 5/8ths chance of having to lift the seat. In the end that works out to 3/32 + 15/32 = 18/32. That has men having to touch the seat 50% more often than women, 18 times for every 32 expeditions to the loo. So we're already doing the lion's share of 2nd-hand ass-touching here. Of all the seat-manipulating happening, men are doing 60%.

If men were responsible for lowering the seat when they're done:

The ladies would never, ever have to touch the seat, because the seat is set exactly the way they like it. 0 seat touches per 32 bathroom trips.

The men, on the other hand, when they pee (3/4ths of the time), will have to to lift the seat, and then PUT IT BACK DOWN. That means for every 32 bathroom breaks, the man will have to touch that thing 24 whopping times. The men now are doing 100% of the crapper-touching.

Now tell me what you think sounds like a more reasonable plan:

-men having to do 60% of the work of touching the seat, and women having to take a brief glance at where they are putting their bare asses,
or,
-men doing 100% of the seat-manipulating, just so women can walk into the bathroom in the dark, ass-first, without taking the quarter second's worth of effort to visually verify the seat position.

And this isn't even taking into account the fact that if there are any germs on this seat, 4/5th of them are from female asses, so you should be grateful that we're already doing the germ-touching 60% of the time, even though they're mostly your germs. But we're happy to touch those germs that are 80% yours, 60% of the time, with zero complaining, because we're cool like that, and (presumably) because we love you.

Now go make us a sandwich, darlin.

An Analysis of Astrological Lover Profiles or, Danger: Do Not Have Sex with Any of These People

2007-01-21T23:32:00.000-08:00

I came across this list of Zodiac lovers' profiles on a website that I will not refer to by name, but I will say that it occasionally makes me despair for the future of humanity and it rhymes with thighspace. It claims to be from a book written 35 years ago by an astrologist predictionist who had the foresight to threaten me with bad luck if I fail to repost it, so here it is, followed by my thorough scientific analysis:

.:VIRGO:. The Virgin
Dominant in relationships. Sexy. someone loves them right now. Freak in bed. Always wants the last word. Caring. Smart. Intellectual. Attractive. Loud. Loyal. Easy to talk to. Hard to forget Love at first sight. Everything you ever wanted. Easy to please. The one and only. Ultimate sexiness. 7 years of abd luck if you do not repost.

.:SCORPIO:. The sex addict
Can be mean. EXTREMELY sexy. Intelligent. Energetic. Predict future. Most erotic. (Freak in bed.) (GREAT kisser.) Always get what they want. Sexy. Attractive. Easy going. Loves being in long relationships. Talkative. The sexiest ever....Romantic. Caring. 4 years of bad luck if you do not repost.

.:LIBRA:. The liar
Very pretty. Very romantic. Nice to everyone They meet. Their Love is one of a kind. Silly, fun and sweet. Have own unique sexiness. Most caring person you will ever meet! Amazing n Bed..!!! Did I say Amazing n Bed? not the kind of person you wanna #### with... u might end up crying... the most irresistible. 9 years of bad luck if you do not repost.

.:ARIES:. The Lover
Outgoing. Lovable. Spontanious. Not one to #### with. Erotic. Funny. Take you on trips to the moon in bed. Excellent kisser EXTREMELY sexy. Loves being in long relationships.=) Addictive. Loud. best in bed. 16 years of bad luck if you do not repost.

.:AQUARIUS:. Does it in the water
Trustworthy. Sexy. Great kisser. One of a kind. Loves being in long-term relationships. Extremely energetic. Unpredictable. Will exceed your expectations. Not a Fighter, But will Knock your lights out. Amazing in bed, THE BEST LOVERS BETTER THAN EVERYONE! 2 years of bad luck if you do not repost.

.:GEMINI:. Does Twosomes
Nice. Love is one of a kind. Great listeners Very Good in bed. Lover not a fighter, but will still knock you the #### out. Trustworthy. Always happy. Loud. Talkative. Outgoing VERY FORGIVING. Loves to make out. Has a beautiful smile. Generous. Strong. ULTRA SEXY. THE MOST IRRESISTABLE. 9 years of bad luck if you do not repost.

.:LEO:. The Lion in bed
Great talker. Sexy and passionate. Laid back. Knows how to have fun. Is really good at. Great kisser. Unpredictable. Outgoing. Down to earth. Addictive. Attractive. Loud. Loves being in long relationships. Talkative. Not one to mess with. Rare to find. Good when found. 7 years of bad luck if you do not repost.

.:CANCER:. The Cutie
MOST AMAZING KISSER. Very high ### appeal. Great in bed!!! Love is one of a kind. Very romantic. Most caring person you will ever meet! Entirely creative. Extremely random and proud of it. Freak in bed. Spontaneous. Great tellin stories. Not a Fighter, But will Knock your lights out if it comes down to it. Someone you should hold on to. 12 years of bad luck if you do not repost.

.:PISCES:. The Piece of ass
Caring and kind. Smart. Center of attention. Too Sexy, DAMN IT. Very high ### appeal. Has the last word. The best to find, hardest to keep. Fun to be around. Freak in the sheets. Extremely weird but in a good way. Super good in bed. Good Sense of Humor!!! Thoughtful. A partner for life. Always gets what he or she wants. Loves to joke. Very popular. Silly, fun and sweet. 5 years of bad luck if you do not repost.

.:CAPRICORN The passionate Lover
Love to bust. Nice. Sassy. Intelligent. Sexy. Predict future. Irrestible, awesome kisser. Loves being in long relationships. Great talker. Always gets what he or she wants. BY FAR the BEST in BED. Very sexy. Coolest. Loves to own Gemini's in sports.
Extremely fun. Loves to joke. Loves to be your first. So you'll never forget. Smart. 24 years of bad luck if you do not repost.

.:TAURUS The Tramp
Aggressive. Freak in bed. Rare to find! Loves being in long relationships Likes to give a good fight for what they want. Extremely outgoing. Sexy as ........ Loves to help people in times of need. Outstanding kisser. Very funny. Awesome personality. Stubborn. Sexual as ......... Most caring person you will ever meet! One of a kind. Not one to #### with. Are the most sexiest people on earth! 15 years of bad luck if you do not repost.

.:SAGITTARIUS:. The Sexy one
Spontaneous. Horny. Freak in Bed. High appeal. Rare to find. Great when found. Loves being in long relationships. The one. So much love to give. Not one to mess with. 4 years of bad luck if you do not repost

First, according to this, 5 out of the 12 signs are "freaks in bed", which according to the Wikipedia, means they have either unusual personalities, or entertaining physical deformities. Good times, either way.

All Leos are described as "a lion in bed", which I can only assume means they weigh 300-500 lbs, operate in packs, and sometimes eat people. Watch out, ladies.

Capricorns and Aquariuses both separately rank as "the best in bed, better than all the others". Apparently astrologers aren't 100% acquainted with the definition of "best", and I'll leave it at that.

Aries lovers will "take you to the moon", which means that they've been studying their copies of Sexing for Dummies, or that they have NASA elaborately fake their orgasms to intimidate the Russians.

Libras in the sack are "amazing", and Cancers are "great". Geminis somehow only managed a score of "very good". Sucks to be those guys, I guess, since everyone else gets to be a freakish spacefaring sexual Tyrannosaurus.

So, good night and happy humping, people.

Except Geminis, apparently. Have fun being unexceptional.

Pictures of Fake Nazis

2007-01-15T10:30:00.000-08:00

No, I don't normally hang out in a nazi SS uniform, but that's life in the film industry.

Fake nazis

All About Attention Deficit...wait, what?

2006-11-29T00:18:00.000-08:00

Q: How many kids with A.D.D does it take to screw in a lightbulb?
A: Hey, wanna go ride bikes?

I wasn't any kind of serious case, but I was diagnosed with the ol' ADD when I was a wee bastard, brainwave charts and everything. Now that I'm an adult (I guess), it's not really detrimental, but its effects are occasionally hilarious.

When I got up this morning, I had intended to finish watching Disc 2 of House, M.D. Season 2, so I could take it back to Blockbuster and get something else (Disc 3, probably-- I love that show like Charlie Sheen loves transvestite hookers). I jumped down from bed and headed for the living room, making it about a foot before I got distracted by my computer and decided to check my email.

So I proceeded with that, and about halfway through, remembered that last night's episode of Heroes (which I thought maybe I was going to appear in) was now online, so I watched that.

Having done that, I continued my marathon 15-foot trek to the living room, and passed a small mirror, which revealed that I probably needed a shower, possibly a haircut, and definitely a better place to put that mirror so it wasn't distracting me all the fucking time.

So it was definitely shower time. I dropped my pants, pulled a towel off its wall hook, and then saw my rent invoice tacked to my cork board, and resolved to pay it right then, so I wouldn't forget.

I actually managed that entire task all in one run--made it all the way to the dining room table and dropped off the check, where I noticed the vacuum cleaner, which must have previously been in someone else's room because I hadn't seen it in weeks, which meant my room was due for a good vacuuming.

Back to my room I went, with Señor Dirt Diablo, and gave the floor a go for about 20 seconds before I figured out that my loud little cylindrical Satan was pretty much just pushing crap around without picking any up. Made a mental note to stop buying cleaning appliances named after the Lord of Darkness, and got out the tools for some minor surgery. As it happens, it was a massive ball of crap stopping up the bastard, which I managed to break up and push out with the aid of a rifle bayonet and a great deal of creative profanity.

Reassembled, the satanic suck-machine was much more cooperative, and I got about half my floor done until I ran into my old Mosin 91/30, from which the bayonet had come. Its position in my room was totally non-conducive to my vacuuming process, and generally annoyed me for no well-defined reason, so a new home had to be found, right then.

I wandered about the room looking for an appropriate perch for a 4-foot bolt-action piece of dirty Commie history, and once again got distracted by my computer.

So here I am, sitting at my computer posting to my blog, with a huge Russian battle rifle across my lap and no pants on. If you've ever wondered what A.D.D is like, this is it, right here.

So how about that bike ride?

Pictures of Nate Jumping Off Things-- Episode 2: Mammoth Mountain

2006-07-28T20:43:00.000-07:00

Man, there sure is a lot of crap to jump off of in the mountains. These were taken this week, during a family reunion of sorts in Mammoth Lakes, California.

Many thanks to Eric Barone and his Digital Rebel, from which came most of the good pictures this time, and as usual, you may click for the much larger uncropped versions.

Note the snowballs already airborne and heading for me:

...and impact!

Leave comments if you want to make any specific requests regarding things that I might jump off of, or if you just want to call me a dork.

Pictures of Nate Jumping Off Things-- Episode 1: The Porch

2006-07-18T13:53:00.000-07:00

So it turns out that I like to jump off things.

This should not be surprising to anyone who knows me well, or has worked with me in stunts, or has ever been around me while there are nearby objects that can reasonably be jumped off of. I don't believe I've ever gone down an entire set of stairs without jumping over the last 4 or 5 of them, unless I was sliding down the railing (which, now that I think about it, might explain why my jeans wear out so quickly in the ass regions).

Anyway, I set up my camera and spend about a half hour capturing shots of me in midair jumping off the porch, and made a horrifying discovery: For some reason, I make some of the most profoundly retarded facial expressions when I'm in midair. I have yet to successfully capture an aerial shot of me without my free-fall-induced Down's Syndrome.

And since I lack some basic sense of dignity, I'm going to show you exactly what I mean, and you can click the images for larger, clearer evidence that I still ride the short bus wherever I go.

The first shot was badly timed, capturing me only about a foot off the porch:

...but what I lack in altitude, I make up for in stupid faces:

I like pie!

Take that, gravity!

Flared nostrils create lift, apparently.

...although if my face is any indication, I may have just soiled myself.

Number three, a little higher up and from the side:

and the close-up:

I'm an excellent driver.

And finally the inexplicable but awesome shot that makes me wonder what other weird positions I'm making in midflight:

It's like a really short episode of Life Goes On:

My mom sews name tags into my underwear.

Thanks, and stay tuned for other sure favorites, like Pictures of Nate Eating Crayons, and Pictures of Nate Falling Out of Bed.

Review: The Fast and the Furious: Tokyo Drift

2006-06-18T15:27:00.000-07:00

Well, I just got back from seeing 3 Fast 3 Furious 3 Tokyo 3 Drift, and I was pleasantly surprised that it didn't suck nearly at all.

I remember reading through the daily scripts when I was on set, thinking that some of the dialogue was just awful, the same caliber as most of Anakin Skywalker's lines in Star Wars Ep. 2 and 3, and I guess the editors agreed with me because they cut out most of the really awkward bits, including the big kiss at the end where, for complicated reasons, they had to use a photo double in Lucas Black's place. In the end, it still wasn't Shakespeare - hell, it wasn't Joss Whedon, but for a big dumb fast action movie about a nonsense racing style that actually gets you to the finish line slower than just driving normally, it worked well enough, and didn't cause me too much emotional or intestinal distress.

A few criticisms:

The cellphone camera POV shots. Lame. What is this, a Verizon commercial?
The credits went by way too quickly, and kept spinning around, so I was able to neither confirm nor deny that my name was listed under "Stunt Players".
All the mid-race rapid cutting back and forth from Racer 1's face, Racer 2's face, and Racers 1 and 2's hands, wheels, etc. etc.. At moments, it made it hard to figure out exactly what the hell was going on. But maybe that's just me getting slow in my old age, and in a few months I'll be sitting on a porch swing with a shotgun across my lap yelling at passing kids to get off the damn lawn.

I liked it, though. Hell, I saw it get filmed, so it's not like I didn't know how the races were going to end, and some of the racing bits still had me on the edge of my seat, heart rate up, arthritis givin' me both barrels.

I give it seven out of ten Steve McQueens. I thought it may have been better than the first Furious movie, and was definitely better than the facepunchingly bad 2 Fast 2 Furious. By my usual rating system, I'd rate it 6 dollars, $6.50 if you can find a showing that's not filled with the loud teenage spiky-headed douchebags that seem to always love movies like this.

*SPOILERS IN THIS PARAGRAPH*
Also, that bit at the end with Vin Diesel? I had no idea that was going to happen, after being on set with first unit every single day they filmed in this country. Surprised the crap out of me, or maybe that's just me losing bowel control after all these years.
*END SPOILERS*

More random stuff to watch for:

Near the beginning, right after Lucas gets off the plane, he's going up a long escalator. A few people back behind him, you can see a couple of airline pilots. One of them is Justin Lin, the director. If I recall correctly, the other one is Clayton Townsend, the executive producer.
During the training montage at the docks, one of those old fisherman guys is Keiichi Tsuchiya, the real-life "Drift King". If you're not into the drifting scene, you don't know who he is. Don't worry about it, neither do I, but I guess he's kind of a big deal for the drifting crowd.
After the movie, drive carefully back home. I guarantee the cops will be around the corner salivating at the thought of ticketing all the aforementioned spikey-headed douchebags who will be driving like complete asshats as soon as they get back in their cars. Not having rear-drive or any actual ability to drift will not stop them from trying to drift, trust me on this.

Non-Drunken Inexplicable Story Involving My Pants

2006-05-24T17:57:00.000-07:00

You know those stories about the strangeness that sometimes happens after a long night of excessive drinking, where you wake up in strange places missing articles of clothing? I just sort of had one of those.

Except in reverse.

It was a long and sober night. At about 11 pm, Ben and I were on a mission to find a particular Woody Allen movie and it just wasn't happening. We had to avoid the most local Blockbuster because they seem to have gotten it in their silly bastard heads that I owe them money. Fortunately, there was another one not too far off, that according to Blockbuster's website was open until midnight. Unfortunately, Blockbuster's website is a filthy lying whore, and that store had been closed since 10, and was also inside a laundromat for some reason.

But forget all that, because it's not important.

Except the bit where Blockbuster is a filthy whore. I can't stress that enough.

What's important is my pants. You see, after Ben and I failed in our mission and took the consolation prize of watching the movie Waiting while eating apple turnovers and deli sandwches from Ralph's (which was open - are you listening, Blockbuster? You can make money by selling things to people if you're open), Ben went home and I went to sleep, after carefully removing my pants, as it was a rather warm night.

When I awoke at a perfectly ordinary hour of the morning, I stood and stretched, and all seemed to be well with the world, at first. Birds were chirping, passing motorists shouted friendly obscenities at each other, and the smell of stale beer floated in through my not-quite-closed bedroom door.

But something was deeply and terribly wrong, and I could feel it, once my senses awoke from their slumber. As I slowly looked down, I prepared myself for the worst, but nothing could prepare me for what I beheld.

My pants were back on.

A rational man might simply go on with his day, assuming that he had woken up during the night and, finding it too cold for his tastes, reclothed himself. I, however, taking pride in having never been merely rational, find it much more likely that there was an intruder last night who, upon entering my room and seeing my pantsless form, felt immediately and profoundly inadequate and left in great despair, after replacing my pants in some bizarre act of tribute to the equipment I have been blessed with, taking care to lock the door behind him.

Or it was the Reverse Pants Fairy, who left the quarter I found under my pillow.

But, which one was it?, you ask. This is important.

The world may never know, my friend. The world may never know.

In Which Nate Applies for a Reality TV Show

2006-05-18T13:32:00.000-07:00

Some time ago, a friend told me about a new reality show involving a sort of long-distance scavenger hunt; sort of an Amazing Race kind of thing, only with motorcyclists.

The show's grand prize was to be a "highly customized Harley-Davidson", which was a bummer, but I could always sell it and buy 5 or 6 other bikes that I'd actually ride. And they were looking for applicants.

I filled out their online application, answering most of the questions with the repeated assertion that I was really Batman, and then I promptly forgot about it until they called me a couple of days later and told me they were interested, and would I please make a video introducing me and send it in?

So I called around and gathered Gavin, the man with the camera and a hell of an editor, and Jason, the tall drink of water who you'll see in the video, a bastard with a talent for writing scripts, and we made this:

Also, I apologize.

Early Mourning

2006-04-20T18:48:00.000-07:00

...by the Abominable Showmen:

Wu: a Limerick

2006-04-16T17:18:00.000-07:00

There's a Japanese fellow named Wu,
Who had puberty strike at age two;
It is said of his meat,
were each inch made a beat,
and then written down, he'd have haiku.

Note: Yes, it's a dirty limerick. it's said that there are three kinds of limericks: the limericks that you can recite in the presence of women and clergy, the limericks that you can recite in the presence of clergy but not women, and real limericks. I write real limericks because i'm a traditional kind of guy, as anyone who has dared to peek under my kilt will tell you.

Haiku: home

2005-09-15T15:55:00.000-07:00

weary of the sun
chest rising, falling slowly
under orange trees

Arctic Circle Jerks: The Epic Trip Report

2005-07-24T23:32:00.000-07:00

So I'm a motorcycle addict, and I've watched Long Way Round way too many times, so when the film industry went on hiatus this year I decided that I was going to do something retarded and epic on my motorbike. It was time to ride (Dun dun dun!) to the Arctic Circle.

My mom got wind of this, and convinced my best friend Chris to go with me. Had to twist his arm a bunch, I bet.

Because I'm a cheap bastard, I decided that for minimum expenditure and maximum manliness, there would be no hotels on this trip: either we would find someone to take us in for the night, or we would unpack our 32 year old backpacker tent and camp the hell out. Luckily, we discovered Couchsurfing.com, a worldwide community of people kind enough to let travelers crash on their couches for the night, and we started emailing potential hosts immediately.

Chris would be on his 1st gen SV650, an ex-trackbike, with its stiff track suspension and low clipons. He managed to convert it back to the stock tubular bar, and got some saddlebags, a Tom Tom GPS, a "waterproof" duffel bag, and a cheap bar-mount Spitfire windscreen, and ended up getting it to look like this:

I was thinking about also taking my SV, a 2nd gen 650S, but I knew the roads would get nasty up north and I wanted something with a little more fuel, so I went with my DR650SE. For the trip, I went with the same cheap-ass windscreen that Chris got, and found a guy in Orange who used my bike to make a prototype luggage rack and then gave me the first production model, which worked perfectly with my JC Whitney trunk and Joe Rocket side bags. I already had a 5.1 gallon IMS tank and some new Pirelli Scorpion A/T tires, so I was pretty much good to go:

Seriously, that rack is amazing. It's solid as hell, and symmetrical, which means there's some space under the rack on the left where my tent could sit directly opposite my exhaust. The Sequoia Rack - they've got versions that fit all of the major Japanese dualsports and some KTMs too. Highly recommended.

We decided to leave nothing to chance so we had loads of emergency stuff. First-aid kit, a tire plug kit for Chris, spare tubes front and rear for me with a patch kit just in case, 3 tire irons, and a small Campbell-Hausfield tire compressor with the plastic enclosure removed for compactness and the cig lighter plug converted to an SAE connector, which Chris and I both had attachments for, both directly to the battery and through a switched circuit. Plus, 3 ItzaGasCan 1-gallon collapsible fuel containers, which would supplement the SV's range up in the sticks where fuel stations are far apart.

For emergency food, I had several pounds of custom-mixed trail mix, some bottles of water, and a 70oz Camelbak that would turn out to be an absolute godsend on the road.

We had to get new riding gear for this, as we knew there would be some weather that leather just couldn't deal with. I went with a Fieldsheer Highland II suit, the poor man's Aerostich, at $260. One piece, covered in pockets, waterproof as they come, and makes me look like a fat fighter pilot.

Chris went with the separate textile jacket/pants, also from Fieldsheer, or maybe Firstgear.

Anyhoo, it turns out that Chris could only get 2 weeks off work, so our schedule got tightened up to 16 days - 2 5 day workweeks, and 3 full weekends, to go 7600 miles, more or less. We were going to be hauling ass, at 400-600 miles every day, with a few 600 mile days in a row. On my SV, I once did a trip to Illinois and back and averaged 600-700 miles a day, but the DR's a much slower sort of beast, so we were looking at some pretty feckin' long days. But that's how it goes when you have a real job that requires you to show up regularly, so that's what we would do.

So we left our apartments in LA and met at a gas station in Sylmar to exchange sexual innuendo about each other's moms and make sure we didn't forget anything vital before officially taking off for San Francisco.

This was me and Pam, and Chris with his Suzi, in Sylmar next to a Denny's. I was clean-shaven and Chris had his cleanly trimmed goatee:

First thing forgotten: Chris left his mp3 player at home, so he'd be rollin' with earplugs for the rest of the trip. Bummer, man.

But no time to go back to get it: we were off for San Fran, and this was the route:

Google Maps route, with all our stops

That first day, we spent a lot of time getting stuff set up just right--adjusting our windshields, readjusting out windshields, trying different riding positions, figuring out how to communicate with hand signals:

and refining our techniques for taking pictures of scenery while riding:

Also, my bike hit 20k miles, so we pulled over to celebrate:

and take pictures of my riding gear.
Major crotch reporting for duty!:

So we made it to SF without any issues, and made our way to our old college buddy Ben's place, which has moto parking right across the street. That's Ben's KLR650 on the left:

Here's me next to our parked bikes, looking like I don't know what the fuck:

Ben led us on our bikes all around the city to show us how much fun a place like SF is for a guy on a bike. For some reason I ended up wearing no gear except my novelty beanie helmet that I brought for emergency passenger purposes, so I looked like a complete douche and was constantly getting crap in my eyes. Never again. Here's a shot of us looking down on the city:

and a better picture of me looking like some kind of tard, with Ben and Chris:

I'm an excellent driver!

Then we went to a super-funky local bar and had beer in weird-shaped bottles, and then I passed out on Ben's futon:

So we hauled ass out of San Fran the next morning, with Ben, who led us over the Golden Gate and then left us and handed navigation over to Chris's GPS.

And then we passed this boat, and there was much rejoicing:

It was hot as a motherfucker, so we figured we'd have our first real rest stop, and I parked Pam on the grass, proper dualsport style:

and Chris had some Nutri-Grain bars, or at least lots of chunks of nutri-grain bars:

As it turns out, soft cereal bars don't hold up well to being packed tightly in saddlebags and vibrated to death. Also, the reason why people use M&M's in trail mix is because the hard candy shell keeps them from melting all over the fuckin' place at the first sign of a California afternoon. Note to self.

That extra bulge on my bike is a sleeping bag. Ben hooked us up with 2 kickass 20 degree mummy bags and one of those Thermarest self-inflating sleeping pads, for camping. Most importantly though, that sleeping bag made a sweet lower backrest, and sometimes, when I was really bored, a seat:

So we took off, and conversed for a bit:

We actually did spent quite a lot of time on the road flipping each other the bird and expressing through interpretive dance what we were doing with each other's moms last night, and then clarifying the sordid details verbally when we de-helmeted for gas stops. It's just how we communicate.

There was some more camera experiments, including some face shots in which you can see quite a lot through the faceshield reflections:

and eventually we managed to get some shots of actual scenery. This is not Mount Shasta, but I'm going to pretend that it is, because somehow I managed to not get any actual pictures of Mount Shasta.

Anyhoo, we were excited--we finally crossed our first state border into Oregon, and were going to have our first Couchsurfing experience of the trip. Maybe we'd have a good night's sleep, maybe we'd get axe murdered. Who knows?

So we rolled into Susie's place in Eugene, Oregon late at night after having spent a lot of time dicking around at gas stops. We came bearing gifts of (not expensive) wine, and Susie greeted us with a smile when we rolled in:

Susie Ninjapants does roller derby, and is an adorable, charming girl, and that is a terrible picture of her.

So Susie was chilling on her back porch couch, with Maren, a homeless circus performer who was also crashing her couch that night, and had been there for at least a week or two. This is her:

So we all squeezed onto the couch and shared wine and Thai peanuts into the wee hours of the morning. This is me. I'm drunk, and I don't know what the fuck:

Then we spent most of the morning doing exactly the same thing, minus the long-gone wine:

Then Chris gave the girls a ride, if you know what I mean:

I mean on his bike, perv.

Not pictured: Me, jealous:

So we set off for our next stop, Vancouver:

Somewhere in Washington, it started getting cold, so we had to stop and suit up for cold weather riding for the first time, which for me involved taking off my entire suit and attaching the liner, which is an entire other quilted suit that velcroes inside the other one, and is warm as fuck. Also, a neck warmer. So now I'm a really fat fighter pilot:

And the sun started going down, so we stopped and took some pictures, just because:

This sign that we passed before crossing the border should have read: ATTENTION: FILL UP ON BEER AND GAS NOW BECAUSE THE CANADIANS WILL RAPE YOUR WALLET FOR THEM BOTH:

Note on Oregon: full-serve gas is how that state rolls. I had to practically kick the attendant in the nuts because he didn't want to let me fill up my own bike. Dude. No. I let him operate the credit card machine, and that's it.

So we crossed the border without issue and made it to a friend's place in Burnaby, BC, a suburb of Vancouver, by late evening. We were so tired, we practically walked in the door and passed out, so neither Chris nor I have any pictures of that stop. It's okay though, we stayed with them on our way south too, so it all works out.

First thing the next morning, we went straight to the local Canadian Superstore to buy more clothes. Turns out Chris's gear was woefully inadequate for even a cold Vancouver summer night, so he got a fleece pullover to go under his other stuff, while I sat outside and took pictures of our illegally parked bikes.

"No stopping any time"? Oh, no worries--that's just Canadian for "Motorcycle Parking".

And so we set off. There were mountains:

"Hey Chris! Look! Nature stuff!" "Shut up Nate."

There were heroic poses:

and tomfoolery:

But we finally made it to Goji's place, where we were to couchsurf that night.

Well, sort of.

You see, Goji doesn't actually have a couch. He lives in this other chick's backyard, in a tent. He's a nudist hippie vegan raw-foodist pedal cabbie, who also paints faces and is heavy into laughter yoga.

So here's where we stayed for the night. In our backpacker tent, pitched next to Goji's tent. I didn't notice this before, but there's Goji himself on the porch steps. Luckily it was too cold for him to practicing his nudism properly, so he just wore his Jedi robes or whatever:

So we took off the next morning for Fort Nelson, BC. Also known as the middle of fuckin' nowhere. We were definitely in the sticks now, and gas stations were far apart and expensive as fuck.

So we were around McLeod Lake when we realized that we'd missed the last gas station and were about to run out, or at least Chris was. So we were super relieved to find this station, which wasn't on my map:

Thank God, gas!

Oh wait, cash only? That might be a prob--

oh, F word.

OH NO, WILL OUR HEROES FIND GAS, OR WILL THEY BE EATEN BY CARIBOU AND BEAVERS?

FIND OUT IN LIKE, 5 MINUTES, WHEN NATE GETS HIS SHIT TOGETHER AND POSTS THE PICTURES!

So anyway, we looked around for something to siphon gas from or whatever, and then made elaborate plans to put all of Chris's gas in my tank so I could make it to a side road 30 miles up that led to a station 20 miles off the main road, and then bring back my full tank plus all 3 ItzaGasCans full so we could both make it to the next station down the road.

As it turns out, though, there was another open station not more than 5 miles down the road that wasn't on my map. This is because my map was a copy of the Milepost from 2003, which was woefully out of date with regard to where fuel was.

So we filled up our tanks plus one of the emergency cans, just in case:

and Chris transformed into a ninja, with his new fleece cold weather gear and an official Harley-Davidson balaclava he picked up in Prince George. Note that the gas is $1.21 per litre:

We finally made it to Fort Nelson that night, where we had not managed to find a Couchsurfing host, so we put up our tent at a campsite at the edge of town, but not before visiting the local liquor store--it had been a really long and painful day and there's no way we were going to end it sober.

Have I mentioned my seat yet? The Suzuki DR650SE has the worst seat I've ever had the misfortune to do any distance on. To give you some context on this statement, I once did a round trip from LA to San Fran on this:

Yes, that seat is a license plate. The padded thing is a backrest. The bike's name was Gary. And that seat wasn't as bad as the godawful thing on the DR. I don't have a big ass by any reasonable ass measure, but the seat on the DR had at least an inch and a half of my ass hanging off each side of it, and was hard as a rock. So those first few days of the trip, I think I had some idea of what it feels like after some of the bad prison lovin'. Eventually I had the genius idea to turn that self-inflating sleeping pad into a ghetto air-filled seat cushion, which still wasn't all that great, but improved greatly on the alternative.

So I was still gettin' it prison style, but it was the lonely prison sex now instead of the angry prison sex, which is to say, with more lube and less punching. At this point I'd take what I could get.

Which brings us back to the need to drink. We picked up a bottle of Dr. McGillicuddy's Fireball Whisky and opened it up after we had settled in for the night.

Chris, Nate:

Meet Dr. McGillicuddy:

Truly, a pleasure to meet you.

and this is our tiny 32-year-old backpacker tent, set up there in Fort Nelson:

So the next morning, we had some trailmix, shared stories of hilarious sexual misadventures with each other's moms, and we were off, heading for Whitehorse:

We stopped at a small turnout to get some shots of the gorgeous scenery out here in the far outskirts of nowhere:

Hey, is that graffiti?

Nope, that's a shitload of graffiti!

"Dana Tubman smokes fatties with Brad"--kickass.

"Miller Mayes smells like [picture of poop] POOP"--I love the dedication to the message here, where they illustrated it, just in case you were not at all familiar with poop. Mad props, yo.

What can I say, I was inspired. So I whipped out a blue Sharpie and added my own, which I had spent the last 2 hours composing in my head:

There once was a native Alaskan,
Whose ass could be had for the askin'--
They say her caboose
Could handle a moose,
But had odors in dire need of maskin'.

I actually composed a second limerick as well, which was clever as damn but so dirty it offended even me, so I'm not going to share that one. It really is that bad.

So we kept on, and passed Muncho Lake, which was gorgeous:

and then the famous Signpost Forest, in Watson Lake, BC, made from thousands of stolen roadsigns from all around the world, sort of like a frat house without any house or frat boys. Or beer, which I could have used at that point:

A while down the road, I had to pee. Bad. I kid you not, this was not a planned photo op--I stopped, whipped it out, and was peeing long enough for Chris to stop his bike, get off, see that I was pissing, start laughing that it was taking so fucking long to finish, and THEN pull off his helmet and gloves, dig out his camera and take a picture, and then bust out laughing again because he seriously couldn't believe it. I must have been really using the Camelbak that day, because I am not exaggerating when I say that it took me a good 90 seconds at max flow rate to fully relieve myself:

I didn't even take the time to lose the helmet, that's how bad I had to go.

Man, that was awesome.

Anyhoo, we stopped in Whitehorse, Yukon that night and couchsurfed with a charming lady named Mel:

She let us cook bison burgers on her stove and use her internet and bring all our crap inside from the cold:

So I figured I'd repay her by letting Chris wash the dishes:

We crashed on her couches, and then woke up as cheery could be:

...and took off into the morning, heading for Fairbanks, Alaska.

I could probably just replace a lot of these pictures with the statement "and there was more nature stuff", but that just wouldn't properly communicate just how much fuckin' nature we passed. Anyone who likes space and trees should come up here, because this part of the world is big as fuck.

Big as fuck.

Here's Chris, showing the ideal position for super-long-distance riding on a sportbike. Laying on the tank, feet hooked over the passenger pegs. Works pretty well, although it looks strange.

Also, by this point Chris had gotten wise and gotten himself a Camelbak as well. I don't think either of us would attempt another serious road trip without one.

Speaking of big as fuck:

I think that's Kluane Lake. It's pretty fuckin' large.

Gratuitous "parking in a no parking zone" shot:

Chris takes a squeegee to his bike:

I don't bother. We've been slaughtering bugs by the handful for the last 2 or 3 days, and we will continue to do so for a while, so I'll just let it be for now:

In retrospect, maybe I should have at least scraped off my headlight - there wasn't much light coming through the mass of dead bugs at that point.

The sky was angry that day, my friends, but I've never seen it more beautiful:

The roads had only started to get shitty the day before, on our way from Fort Nelson to Whitehorse. Discontinuous permafrost and frost heaving tear the shit out of the roads, so the Alaska Highway, which is what we were on for a huge portion of the trip, is always under construction. And by "under construction", I mean "covered in 2 inches of loose gravel for some fucking reason".

If you're in an RV or a truck, it's no big deal, even though the retarded RV drivers slow down to about 30 over the stuff anyway. On a dualsport with 80% street-oriented tires, it's pretty shitty. On a sportbike, it's terrifying, like skating on marbles. Not including the infamous Dalton Highway, we probably did at least 80 miles of shitty terrifying gravel construction roads, and we did not particularly enjoy them:

After enough of that shit, Chris was considering lighting himself on fire with his Bag O' Gas (which is what those cardboard gas cans become after some rain) as a rational alternative to more gravel riding:

As a bonus, the weather started getting exciting somewhere around Fort Nelson. It would be a gorgeous sunny day, birds singing and moose humping at the side of the road, and then the road would change direction all of a sudden and put you right under a gigantic pouring raincloud. 20 minutes later, you'd turn a corner, head down into a valley, and it would be that gorgeous day again. Through most of upper BC and the Yukon, this cycle ended up repeating sometimes 12 times a day.

On the upside, though, the periodic rain helped wash the layer of dead bugs off my faceshield. Hey, glass half full!

Anyhoo, we made it to Fairbanks late that night, after 590 miles of gravel and rain. We stopped at a Fred Meyers to pick up some food and other supplies, and our lady cashier had a mustache. I guess that's just how they roll here in Alaska.

And then we ate here:

Northernmost Denny's in the world. And we ate there. Take that, Lewis and Clark.

Then we set up our crap in a campsite in town:

and passed the hell out.

So we woke up in Fairbanks and took our time with breakfast (peanut butter and Pop-Tarts, Breakfast of Poor Champions), because I'd allotted an entire day to get to the Circle, only 200 miles away.

While we were in fairbanks, some guy in a truck next to us at a light started revving he engine and looking over at us, like he wanted to race.

We let him race himself, since we were in the left hand turn lane. He wasted at least $20 in rubber and didn't really go anywhere. Between him and the Walgreens cashier with the serious fem-mustache, this place is obviously filled with the best and brightest humanity has to offer.

Good times. A few trees and clouds later:

and we were at the beginning of the Dalton.

Chris, ready to tackle this thing on his streetbike. How he fits in regular sized pants, I'll never know:

Crotch is intact and operational. Let's do this.

This is the picture Wikipedia has for the Dalton: looks about right.

Here's some of the sort of road we spent most of the Dalton dealing with:

Nate is slightly dismayed by all this gravel, and doesn't know what the F.

All he knows is fuck gravel.

At this point, the infamous Alaska Black Flies had finally shown themselves. As soon as we stepped off our bikes and removed our helmets, we had about a second of peace, and then we were surrounded by a cloud of these tiny motherfucking black flies. Thousands of them, all trying to climb inside our noses and mouths and eyes, and the 98% DEET we had all over us barely slowed them down--these fucks eat DEET for breakfast. So we took off before we could be their lunch.

That's my excuse for having so few pictures of the Dalton. Every time we stopped, they attacked.

So after the first few miles of dirt road, we switched bikes so we could share the terrifying experience of riding it on the SV, just for giggles. It was quite a sight, me trying to ride a sportbike like it was a motocrosser--standing up, elbows out, sliding the rear all over the damn place. Except for the potholes, it was actually kind of fun.

We stopped at the Yukon River crossing to fill up, since gas stations were about as rare as sanity up here. We loaded our Camelbaks up with ice and water, and tried to hit on the cashier girl.

How she resisted my grizzled charms, I'll never know:

Down the road, we pulled off to get some shots of Finger Mountain, and for me to exaggerate about the rocks we had to get through, and also the size of my cock:

Thumbs up, Finger Mountain!

Crotch Status: Operational

Take that, Finger Mountain.

And here's finger mountain unmolested. Not really much of a mountain, truth be told.

...and back to the road.

There were a few construction portions where the road was covered in at least 6 inches of jagged, pool-ball-sized gravel. That was the fucking worst - neither bike's front wheel would stay put in that crap, and we were forced to follow a pilot truck that was going about 5 MPH, which did not help. Those were the worst, these sections are the ones where you get your tires shredded and have to go back to Fairbanks on a tow truck, but somehow we escaped any such disasters.

Anyhoo, 17 miles past Finger Mountain there was this:

Fuck yes.

We took some pictures with the sign to prove we were there:

...of course, one of our trusty bikes:

...and one of me jumping off a rock trying to look like I'm sitting on top of the world:

This is Lisa:

She works for UAF and was doing some kind of recreation study, giving questionnaires to travelers and whatnot, so we kept her company for a while.

We didn't add our mark to the back of the Arctic Circle sign, but we admired the handiwork of those who came before us.

And I read about some nature crap:

After dicking around for a few hours, we decided to start heading back so we could get some head start on some of the obscenely long days we had scheduled ahead of us, and maybe get some hot food for the night.

We stopped so we could take a closer look at this Alaska Pipeline:
Limited access, blah blah whatever.

I got your limited access right here, buddy.

You say pipeline, we say urinal.

Would these count as evidence of trespassing in court? Maybe we shouldn't be posting so many of them.

Seriously though, that's one big pipeline. GOD BLESS THE USA

"I do believe I have a gigantic pipeline emerging from the fly of my pantaloons!"
"I have some recollection of a similar comment that your mother said last night regarding my own trousers."
"Touche, my friend."

Anyway, enough screwing around, back on the road.

And then it started raining, which was interesting.

And by "interesting", I mean "the only possible way to make the Dalton any more terrifying".

But we made it 60 miles anyway, and stopped at the Hot Spot "restaurant" for dinner, where I had the most obscenely large hamburger ever:

Seriously, it was ginormous. It extended an inch past the bun all the way around, and was a good 2cm thick at least--I'm guessing a pound of meat. All for only 9 bucks.

F you kitty, this is my big-ass burger!

We made camp right there by the Hot Spot, hoping that the smell of delicious burgers didn't attract any bears:

The ground was impenetrable, so we had to go find big rocks to replace our useless tent pegs.

Take THAT, tent!

obligatory "epic motorcycle picture with top-of-the-world sunset in the background:

Tomorrow: the Long Way Home.

We woke up the next morning, filthy and fly-bitten. Turns out 32 year old metal tent zippers start losing teeth when you pull them out of retirement for some roughin' it.

Our stuff was pretty dirty at this point, mostly just dried mud instead of the furry coat of dead bugs we had before. Here's my setup, complete with "WASH ME" and disgustingly dirty emergency spare helmet:

...and Chris's bike, which is normally quite a handsome machine:

Here's my emergency spare gas, a Powerade container.

The vast majority of plastic soda/water bottles are made of polyethylene, which is the same stuff my gas tank is made of, so it may not be DOT approved, but it's perfectly safe to use in a pinch, at least with a nice strong thick bottle like this one.

So we took off, back down the shitty gravelly Dalton, which, now that we had time for pictures, looks mostly like this:

Sometimes it would get a little shittier like this:

We'd show you the really big sharp stuff, but we were too scared to stop while we were actually going through it. So just pretend like I just posted pictures of us climbing mountains of jagged obsidian with our bikes strapped to our backs or something, okay?

This was a pretty common sight for us, old guys on BMW GSs and slightly less old guys on KTMs. They thought Chris and I were fuckin' nuts for taking a streetbike up there. We told them our next project was doing the Dakar Rally on a Segway.

But eventually we reached proper tarmac, at the Elliot Highway.

Oh God yes, pavement.

I think I just peed myself a little.

Our trip off the paved roads had wreaked havoc with Chris's GPS cradle, and the power connection was only working intermittently, so Chris anchored that little shit down with a ziptie to make it work.

It continued to give us problems, though. Our solution? More zipties, of course.

2 Zip Ties: Serious Business.

We still had plenty of energy due to the head start we'd given ourselves the night before, so we went right through Fairbanks and kept going, until we stopped for dinner in Tok (pronounced "Toke"), Alaska.

A friend on another board suggested we try the pizza at Fast Eddy's, and since it was about the only restaurant in town, it didn't exactly take arm-twisting to get us in there:

Hot food! Yeehaw!

Pizza so good, you'll catch the Down's:

It's just...so beautiful.

They were all sold out, but this might be the greatest piece of Mountie-related art I've ever seen, and I fucking want one.

We ended up going all the way to Alcan, just on the Alaska side of the border, and camping in the rain.

32-year-old backpacker tent: mostly waterproof. mostly.

I kid you not, we had to pay 12 dollars to camp in this muddy, sloped "campsite". Don't get me wrong, it was probably worth that just for the hot showers, but referring to this generator and tire graveyard as a "campsite" is a bit of a stretch.

As soon as the rain subsided enough the next morning, we packed up our crap...

...and booked it out of that place. Other than the hot Southern blonde working the front counter, there just wasn't any reason to stick around that hole any longer.

A bit down the road, our first mechanical issue of the trip struck, and we had to stop to take care of it.

It was the dreaded Wet Twin becomes Thumper Syndrome, where the front fender isn't long enough, and the front wheel throws water up into the engine and drowns the front spark plug, turning a 650cc Twin into a really shitty 325cc Single. It's pretty common on the SV, and a lot of people get fender extensions to prevent it.

"A lot of people", meaning "a lot of people who are not Chris or me".

So Chris cursed and started removing parts to get at the problem area while i provided encouragement and dicked around with his kickass camera:

Chris managed to get most of the water out of there, clean the area up a bit, and displace the rest of the water with some WD40 (the WD stands for Water Displacement--go figure), and we carved up a bottle and ziptied it in place, for a homemade fender extension that I think Macgyver would be proud of:

Will it work?
Will our heroes get eaten by bears?
How does engine type correlate with sexual preference?

Tune in next time to find out!

Nate Falls posted:

Will it work?

Yep.

Nate Falls posted:

Will our heroes get eaten by bears?

Nate Falls posted:

How does engine type correlate with sexual preference?

Oh, well okay then.

And so we rode on. And then we had to stop again, because holy shit.

Excuse the spots on my lens--it was raining at this point and there wasn't any way to keep it dry.

It was cold and rainy and all we wanted to do was finish getting to Prince George so we could put up camp and sleep, but this was the most incredible rainbow we'd ever seen; it was brilliant in a way the cameras just couldn't capture, like a multicolored laser shooting out of the ground. Un-fucking-real.

But we managed to eventually shut our gaping mouths and fight on through the torrential rain that produced that rainbow, and a few hours later we had camp set up at Goji's place.

We woke up at Goji's, packed up our crap, talked to Goji about some magical Chinese berries he wanted to share with us, and then took off.

At this point, I had realized that my chain and rear sprocket were both worn as fuck--the sprocket teeth were nice and sharp, and the chain was having to be tightened/lubed at almost every gas stop.

Nate's Ass: Status sexy.

And we met a man named BigHat McBallsChin.

No, I have no idea why they call him that.

I think this was the day when Chris's GPS actually fell off his bike while we were cruising--I guess Chris hadn't reapplied the zipties yet that day. We stopped and went back, and wouldn't you know it, the fuckin' thing was still working. So we strapped it back on and kept moving.

We switched bikes once between gas stops, just for some variety, and when we came to our next stop, it was like there had been an oil explosion somewhere around the aft and of the SV's motor. There was oil on the shock, spring, swingarm, centerstand, header pipe, everywhere. Terrified, I went to the local auto parts place and got some thicker oil, oil stabilizer, and silicone for emergency leak patching. We spent a few hours trying to figure out what the fuck, and never could figure out where it was really coming from. So we topped her off and kept going and hoped this wasn't going to strand our asses up here.

Turns out after that first unexplained oil explosion, the oil loss slowed to barely a trickle, so we'd throw in a few drops at every gas stop, and it never gave us any more trouble. I think we ended up deciding it was the countershaft seal, but it never tried to recreate the Exxon Valdez incident again.

We made it to our friend Mike's place in Burnaby, and I was jonesin' for some hot food, so Mike's slow-moving spaniel was starting to look tasty.

Then Mike distracted me with some real food, and managed to save his dog. Mostly. We cleaned ourselves up and took off for a night on the town in Vancouver.

Hey, a camera!

Old school! I wonder if anyone's done the Dalton Hwy on one of these.

Vancouver at night:

On the right is Mike, who kicks ass. To the left, not shown: a man urinating in public.

and here's our group, minus Chris the photographer.

Code names: The Revisionist, Mortal Wombat, Nathaniel T Kittenstomp III, and Man With Beard (Mike).

and if we were all in a band, this would be our album cover photo:

Nate: Easily Distracted.

Crotch: Present and accounted for.

Fill with care, indeed. Reminds me of how I feel about your mom, Chris.

Bridges: just another reason for Nate to make the Unnecessary Angry Face.

There's no way a caption could possibly improve this picture.

Jalapeño poppers, meet The Angry Face.

There was actually no reason to have an angry face. We had much Canadian beer, walked around town a lot, and ended up at some fancy restaurant, where we had poutine.

Poutine, for those who don't know, is a Canadian thing where you get a big-ass pile of fries, drenched in brown gravy, and topped with melty cheese curd. It's fucking incredible, and artery-clogging as damn. But we were in Canada, dammit, so to the hell with healthy eating!

I highly recommend it.

The next morning, Chris took off early and hauled ass, so he could meet some work friends in Oregon. I slept in and took my time, and found this, when I approached the border:

Miles of it.

It turns out that morning was the morning of the Glasgow/London airport bombings, so they turned the border dial down to Slow As Fuck. It took me 5 hours to get across that thing, so in the meantime I turned off my bike and walked around distributing Coffee Crisp candy bars to my fellow motorists before they melted all over the insides of my saddlebags. One lady gave me some bottled water and an apple in exchange-- God bless Canada. Everyone got out of their cars and hung out--it was like a cocktail party on a beautiful sunny day, except it took place in a gigantic traffic jam.

I eventually made it to the border, and the border crossing fucker confiscated my gigantic 1kg bag of dried pepperoni sticks, because I guess we're not okay with Canadian beef anymore. I called him a fucker under my breath, and then headed to Eugene, Oregon, to Susie's place, without incident.

Susie is for some reason deathly afraid of my camera, and is now a brunette:

Chris caught up with me there, and all three of us crashed together on the futon that night (in separate sleeping bags). Chris managed to get this shot of me before he left in the morning, so now I have proof that once I was in the same bed as a girl.

I stuck around that day, because Susie was having a potluck for other Couchsurfing members that night, and because I don't have a real person job that requires me to be available at any particular time, like Chris does.

I gave Susie a moto ride around town, picking up tiki torches and other things that I would not advise carrying on a bike, and then I helped her pound in a support for a fence, while she commented on my form:

Later, Steve arrived to surf Susie's couch that night, and also share in the potluck festivities There's him on the right:

As it turns out, Steve is my long-lost brother who lives in Chico, CA. He also has a cheap adventure bike (KLR650) held together mostly by bungees, and a traveling beard, and by a very strange coincidence, we have the same military-surplus rifle from Big 5 Sporting Goods, which I was thinking about bringing to fend off bears, and which he suggested I bring to fend off bears. We were finishing each other's sentences within 15 minutes of meeting. It was kind of strange.

The potluck went well. I set off some fireworks, and we all got good and drunk on Susie's mojitos, and everyone who attended thinks that Susie and Steve and I had a threesome later(we did not, in fact, at any time, have a threesome).

But I eventually managed to tear myself away from Susie and the charming town of Eugene, and headed off the next morning, equipped with the newest Feline Positioning System navigation technology.

That's cutting edge stuff, folks.

But after another uneventful day, a stop-off in San Fran at Ben's place that involved some incredibly gay karaoke and a piñata, and another day of cruising down the coast, I was home.

I don't think I've ever been so happy to see the Pacific Ocean:

When I pulled into the driveway, my bike was offially done running for a while:

The rear tire was down to damn near zero tread: toasted.

The chain was stretched way beyond the "replace now" point, to the "you should have replaced this a few thousand miles ago" point: toasted.

The rear sprocket wasn't just worn as hell, it only had half its teeth left; the rest had broken off between here and San Francisco: definitely toasted.

The sprockets and chain, I'd been tightening and lubing at every single gas stop since the Canadian border to keep them from falling apart. 200 miles farther and I wouldn't have made it.

A few days after I got home, I got booked on a show where I was supposed to be a cop, so my manly beard had to come off. Here's the ceremonial shaving of the traveling beard:

Step 1: cut a hole in the box. I mean, big manly beard.

step 2: The Lemmy

Step 3: Kickass Handlebar

I wanted to keep that, but the makeup and hair guys on set made me trim it down to a 70's cop/molester mustache.

Someone on another board noticed that it looked like I was getting more naked the more I shaved off, and suggested that the sequence should end with a shot of me naked with a Hitler stache, which I took for my own secret stash of photographic hilarity, with a strategically-placed bowling ball, but I think I'm going to save that one for my blog, which no one actually reads.

So now I'm clean-shaven and back at home where I have running water and a bed, but some days, I wonder if I wasn't more at home on the road.

haiku from the john

2005-07-19T23:30:00.000-07:00

the chocolate log
emerges, greeting the day;
a dark brown sunrise.

note: first published in the stalls of the Icicle Fisheries men's room in Seward, Alaska.

Haiku: a trigger pull

2005-07-04T21:22:00.000-07:00

dark chamber waiting
pin release, a strike, a spark
cleansing fire, ignite

A Public Service Announcement

2005-06-06T21:20:00.000-07:00

Without the dance pad, it's not Dance Dance Revolution, it's Listen To Shitty Korean Dance Music And Get Carpal Tunnel Syndrome Revolution.

And really, all the pad adds is the ability to look like a spaz. Go at it, superstar.

Sweep Them Right the Hell Up

2005-05-19T21:18:00.000-07:00

A few years back, a friend of mine at work decided to coin the phrase "sweep my nuts".

He never fully explained the meaning, which I think may have been for the best:

When you tell someone, "sweep my nuts, wangbasket", it's an insult and simultaneously a mystery. He knows "nuts" is bad. Obviously he's being asked to service a scrotum in some fashion, but sweep? How do you sweep nuts?

The result being that the victim is insulted, but he's too paralyzed by the mystery to respond in time to save face.
Brilliant, I say.

Brilliant.

Haiku: how to woo

2005-03-13T17:37:00.000-08:00

As she runs, screaming
I pull my trousers back up
-"Can I call you, then?"

I Have Thoughts Occasionally, and I Apologize for That

2004-10-30T21:07:00.000-07:00

I had a thought about a song today. At a party last night, I remember hearing Britney Spears's version of "I Love Rock & Roll", and even though it uses the same words as the original, it seems to communicate a different message.

I thought it was pretty clear that Joan Jett simply loved rock & roll, but I get the feeling that Britney's feelings toward rock & roll likely involve getting rock & roll to come home with her and letting rock & roll have sex with her in the butt.

Which is to say, I think the new version's growing on me.

Review: First Daughter

2004-10-16T21:10:00.000-07:00

First Daughter: It's pretty much just like Chasing Liberty, only with Katie Holmes instead of Mandy Moore. Normally, that would be a point in Daughter's favor, except the only thing Liberty had going for it was that Mandy Moore seems slutty enough that even I'd have a chance with her, so I could create elaborate fantasies involving Mandy, me, and a whole jar of chunky peanut butter and watch them play out on my head during the stupid parts of the film. That is to say, the parts between the previews and the credits. With First Daughter, I didn't even have that to keep me company, as Katie consistently rejects me, even in my imaginary happy land.

My rating for First Daughter: $1.

additional note: I swear to you that I did not pay to see Chasing Liberty. My mother lacks whatever sense that keeps most of the rest of us from renting obviously godawful movies. I love her dearly, but I no longer let her go to Blockbuster Video unaccompanied.

Now, to cheer you up, a kitty:

Awwww.

Haiku From the Road

2004-10-12T04:21:00.000-07:00

a twist of the wrist-
all my demons fall behind,
buried in the wind

Double Feature Review: Princess Diaries 2 and Hidalgo

2004-10-11T21:12:00.000-07:00

I just saw Princess Diaries 2, and then came home to find that someone had rented Hidalgo, and it was just starting, so I ended up watching it and right now I'm not liking movies very much.

The Princess Diaries was crap. It was such total cheese that I put my hat back on 10 minutes into the film to minimize the chances of being recognized, even though there were only 2 other people in the entire theatre. I actually cringed at a good number of lines in that movie, and truly felt sorry for Julie Andrews throughout the whole thing. It must have hurt, being in a movie like this after doing, say, the Sound of Music. Actually, forget The Sound of Music: it must have hurt being in a movie like this after doing The Princess Diaries 1.

The Princess Diaries 2 gets a rating of $2.00

The sappy factor had me walking out the theatre with a smile on my face, though, which is more than I can say for Hidalgo. Egads. I was checking my watch constantly, hoping this seemingly longer-then-the-3000-mile-race-it-depicts marathon of a film would end, so I could sleep, or eat something, or watch Jon Stewart fail to be funny about the Presidential election. We were rooting for Viggo to shoot the horse when it got injured, and then fell silent in defeat when it got back up and kept going. Hidalgo could have been made much shorter, if they had cut out all the-
No, scratch that. It could have been made the optimal length by not making it all.

In any case, knowing what I know now, you would have to pay me to see Hidalgo. At my current job's pay rate, that comes out to $33.43, plus $2 for gas.

I give Hidalgo, therefore, a rating of -$35.43

Conversations From Work

2004-10-09T16:32:00.000-07:00

You have a dog, do you? What kind?

Oh, puppy. Right.

Rottweiler? Interesting.

Fifty pounds, you say? At five months of age? Heavens, that does sound rather large.

You're absolutely right. Quite a large puppy. I have a dog too, you know. Much smaller than yours.

Yes, I can imagine that such large jaws and teeth on a puppy must be an odd, somewhat humorous sight. That was just a polite courtesy chuckle, by the way. You've been talking about your puppy nonstop for at least five minutes now, and the subject, or at least your presentation of it, has ceased to be truly interesting, but I'm still trying to be polite about it, because I rather like this seat and if I were to be rude and suddenly refuse to converse with you, it would create an uncomfortable situation, and I would likely have to find a seat elsewhere in order to alleviate said situation, and the only ones open are unpadded folding chairs, and I'd really like to avoid those if I could.

Yes, I can see how such a large puppy would be difficult to train, specifically in the area of not chewing your possessions to bits. I'm trying desperately to change the subject of conversation, specifically to anything non-Rottweiler-related.

Yeah, big teeth chewing things. You already mentioned that. Must be frustrating. Can we please talk about something else? Anything, really.

Your shoes, huh? Ripped to shreds. Yeah. Seriously, can you just be quiet for a while, or bother someone else?

No? Wonderful.

Spanking him with a newspaper doesn't work? On a fifty-pound Rottweiler? You don't say. I never would have guessed that a disciplining tool made of paper wouldn't work on a dog of that size. That was sarcasm, of course. You're an idiot. Shut up.

Yeah, that's a good idea. An obedience school might help. This, it took you five months to figure out? I weep for the future of humanity. If you do not shut your mouth, I will staple it shut and duct-tape your head to the floor.

Cute. Right. I'm sure it's adorable. Shut your facial sphincter. I WILL EAT YOUR SOUL AND SET YOUR CHILDREN ON FIRE WITH MY MIND AND STAB YOUR DOG TO DEATH AND WEAR HIS SKIN FOR A HAT.

...Yeah, I'm a bit thirsty. I'm going to head over to the cooler and find something to drink, maybe head outside and get some fresh air. I hate you. Yes, with a burning passion, to the very core of my being. Hmm? Yeah, probably a Coke. You want one?

I am Nate, Background Superstar.

Review: Jenny McCarthy's Right Nipple

2004-10-07T21:16:00.000-07:00

I know this isn' t a movie review, but some things just require me to speak out.

I touched Carmen Electra today on the set of Dirty Love, and saw a Jenny McCarthy nipple firsthand due to a minor wardrobe malfunction during a stage-diving scene. The one on the right.

I give Jenny McCarthy's right nipple a preliminary rating of $6.00, but I will reserve a final judgement for the day she shows me both of them at the same time, since it would be unfair to rate the one nipple out of context.

Resident Evil: Apocalypse: A Review

2004-09-27T20:57:00.000-07:00

If you liked the first one, you'll like this. If you liked xXx, you'll probably like this. If you're looking for artsy crap or a totally coherent plot that someone spent more than an hour on, then I think you came into the wrong theatre.

Zombies get shot, stabbed, lit on fire, blown up, run over by cars, kicked in the face, and decapitated, mostly by Milla Jovovich. Breast are bared, if not for a great deal of time. Motorcycles are inexplicably jumped through windows, and it all makes sense, if you don't think about it too hard. If this was the Shawshank Redemption with Andy Dufrsne escaping by building a Harley-Davidson Fat Boy entirely out of soap and jumping it through a 2' square window with bars while the warden's head explodes from astonishment, I would feel rather violated, but this is a movie based on a computer game, so there's no need to set the bar very high.

My rating: $5.

Review: Before Sunset

2004-09-11T21:01:00.000-07:00

I just saw Before Sunset, and then rushed home to warn you all.

It's 80 minutes of real-time dialogue between Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy. It's like someone took one of those long Clerks shots of just Dante and Randall talking about crap, stretched it out to an hour and twenty minutes, turned Randall into a French lady, and had them adlib all their lines, specifically instructing them to not be entertaining.

No, seriously, that's it. The whole time I kept expecting something to happen. Anything. Nothing happened. Nothing at all happened in this film apart from some extraordinarily dull conversation. I've had oil changes more film-worthy.

My rating: -$7. They should have paid me to watch this. That shit was hard work.

Update: I have been informed that this fim is a sequel to the 1995 movie Before Sunrise. I have now watched the first film's trailer, and thus am fully qualified to change my rating to...wait, no, it's still crap.

Haiku: cereal, the tasty nemesis.

2004-09-10T18:53:00.000-07:00

I crunch, thoughtfully,
A flake falls back to the bowl--
He'll not escape me.

Britney Haiku 1

2004-08-16T17:26:00.000-07:00

"Oh baby, baby,
How was I supposed to know.."
Come, merciful death.

haiku: the sound of water

2004-07-18T20:33:00.000-07:00

flowing water roars,
tugging gently, spiraling:
flush, around my head.

Haiku: Ode to Vader

2004-07-12T20:31:00.000-07:00

Twisted and evil-
More machine than man he is
...oh, plus he's your dad.

Random Nametag Haiku.

2004-07-10T20:28:00.000-07:00

"This is my handle,"
explains the short, stout teapot,
"...and this is my spout."

Napkin Haiku 1

2004-06-30T20:24:00.000-07:00

crouched on the table
its deliciousness unsheathed
the muffin taunts me.

Extreme High-Speed Acrobatic Motorcycle Dismount

2004-06-30T18:13:00.000-07:00

...would be the name of the X-Games event it looked like I was practicing for one fine morning two years ago when I crashed my Ninja.

I was on the way to work one fine morning on my bike named Halle, heading to my first semi-legitimate acting job, for some Japanese crime-reenactment show that I'll never get to actually see.

On the curved Lakewood south exit off the 405, I was going maybe 40-45 when I noticed the big gravel patch that I was about to hit. All is not well, I was thinking. My wheels both went into a sideways skid at the same time, putting me and my old EX500 into a fun sort of powerslide.

It was all going swimmingly, all things considered, when both wheels hit the curb at the same time and launched me and my trusty steed into what would have looked much like a barrel roll, had she been a fighter jet and I a pilot. At that point, Halle and I decided it would be best to go our separate ways, so I was on my own for the rest of the flight.

It would have been rather peaceful soaring through the air, if not for the spinning. I saw ground, I saw sky, I saw ground, I saw sky, then I found the ground again and tumbled for a spell. Ah, dirt: nice and soft, relatively speaking. I rested for a minute, then climbed to my feet and made sure my limbs and genitalia were still attached, which they were, thanks to my decision to wear my full suit of leather that day.

Wear your leathers, kids. You'll thank me for the advice later.

I'm pretty sure that I'd damaged a rib or two, as it hurt to sneeze or laugh for a couple months, but other than that, I was fine. The bike hadn't exactly stuck the landing, though - her plastic bits were festively scattered around the general area and she was hiding under a bush, with her right clipon snapped off and dangling at a fun angle, her mufflers all banged up, and her forks twisted right the hell up.

We were pretty far off the road and a bit downhill, so no one passing would have noticed a thing had I been seriously injured, but it all turned out okay and I walked a bit down the road and called the production company for a ride.

That bike's in my backyard now, and I sold it to a good friend for a twenty, and he's fixing her up to be functional if not very pretty.

Columbia

2003-02-01T02:18:00.000-08:00

bright sunflower falls
from so high in the heavens;
such beauty, such loss.