Lies! Lies I say!

Alright so there are a couple of things that I've been stewing about for a while, so I figure I may as well get it out there on the table. Mostly these are things that there seems to be an agenda by the general populace to make me believe something that no matter how hard I squint, I just can't make myself buy in...

First...

I am tired of Soy Milk. Not even because it's gross. I mean... it is gross, but that's not why I'm tired of it. I am tired of it being called "milk". I know this is sort of a bit from Meet the Parents or whatever, but when last I checked the soy bean did not possess a teet. While I was in that field, checking for teets on the soy plants around me, I also went ahead and checked my dictionary (that I carry with me) and noted that milk is a liquid secreted from mammaries. So I'm gonna go out on a limb and say that No teet = no milk. I think it's a good bet that if they (you know who I mean) weren't so intent on calling it MILK, I'd have a much more positive (at least neutral) feeling about that shit. I mean... call it soy juice or something. Soy Juice is at least not a total lie. Same with coconuts. Those black circles are not nipples. There are no baby coconuts suckling it's damned mommy coconut.

While I'm on the subject of calling things by the wrong names in order to make them seem more appealing, I have a couple of other beefs (not actual beef... a complaint). I was watching TV and there was this chick on there who was an expert on raw foods. This is the sort of insane shit that makes me worry for society, because how can a person determine that veganism is too fucking loosey goosey, so they're just gonna eat foods that aren't even fucking cooked. There are rules too... like anything heated over 120 degrees or something is off limits. So anyway, this nut is making lasagna. I know what you're thinking... Isn't lasagna baked in an oven? I sure as hell thought so. Well not this "raw-sagna" That's right. Fucking raw-sagna. This lunatic is mashing up sunflower seeds with oil to make a "pasta dough" that's totally raw, and she's mashing it all into a baking dish (the irony of which is totally lost on this idiot. So again... it's not fucking lasagna. It's something edible probably, and probably not entirely disgusting, but by calling it lasagna and then submitting that shit to me is only certain to make me so fucking mad at you that I'll never eat it in a million bajillion years. Why adopt a perfectly delicious, beloved food's name as your own for your disgusting hippy science experiments? I bet I'd be happy to give it a try if you hadn't just shoved that slop in front of me and claimed it was lasagna...excuse me... raw-sagna.

You know what else is a fucking lie? Dancing With the Stars. Alright... I'm going to start this off by naming a couple of people... Marissa Winokur, Albert Reed, Stacy Kiebler, Kelly Monaco, Shanna Moakler. Who are those people? Those are contestants on "Dancing With the Stars". Now... prior to their appearances on the show, I'm pretty fucking sure 9 out of 10 people would not be able to identify who any of those people are. Seems like calling those people "Stars" is akin to calling me a star. I'd probably be a star after I was on the show, but even that isn't a sure thing, because I couldn't tell you who the fuck Albert Reed is if you put a gun to my head. They've had almost every past boy-bander except for the legitimately famous ones. Where's Timberlake? They've had every over-tanned aging 70s actor...Where's Redford. I mean... it's fine if they wanna have a ballrooom dancing competition... but c'mon... let's not pretend that anyone knows some of these people, let along that these people are stars. May as well bring in totally random people pulled out of a hat...

How is that not So You Think You Can Dance? Well... the people on SYTYCD have to know what they're doing. Even the worst one on there is the best dancer you'd ever see in person. On the other hand, the worst dancer on DWTS may have a heart attack or drop dead or at least fall down. They should call it "Usually Rhythmic Movements with People You May Vaguely Recognize". It's a bit clunky, but far more accurate.

You know what else pisses me off? Did you hear that a MAN gave birth last year? I did too! So imagine my surprise when I got a load of that "dude" and that "dude" turned out to not be a dude at all. It's...wait for it... a WOMAN. That is not news-worthy. Not at all. I can't fucking believe that Barbara Walters had this woman on as one of the "Most Fascinating People" last year. I asked someone at the time why this person was so interesting, and the person I asked said "It's a man who gave birth! It's crazy!"

to which I said.. "Wow... so did they perform a C-Section?"

"No. They say it was a natural childbirth."

"What? That must have fucking hurt! That poor guy! Out his penis???!!! Jesus."

"No no... They're a pre-op trans-sexual. They still have the woman parts."

"Wait...so you're saying that this person who is a woman gave birth as millions of women do every day?"

"Yeah, but they're getting a sex change."

"But they haven't yet, right? Right now that's a woman. Right?"

"Yeah... but..."

** eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee BOOOOOM!!! ** (that's where my head exploded.)

I mean...has ever a lie been more ridiculous and easily disproven, and yet totally accepted by everyone in the whole fucking world. Like... COME ON PEOPLE. There's nothing interesting about this person, aside from perhaps the psychology behind having this strong emotional need to become the man they believe they are, and yet also wanting to give birth. I don't want to hear about this person anymore, and yet I have to because SHE is pregnant again. Where's the news coverage? Shouldn't there be a Pregger-Dude Cam just like they've got the Panda-Cam or whatever? I want daily updates! I want to read about how this medical miracle is against god! I waaazzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Sorry.. it's just not even interesting at all. There are 2 women I know who are pregnant right fucking now. Should I call the news?

Oh...and also...there's this:

Zoltar Had it Right

Hey Folks-

I've had a couple of conversations on this in the past week or so, so I figured I may as well write about it.

When I was a kid, I hated other kids. I just didn't really like hanging out with them. I didn't like the shit that kids did. I think maybe the whole "only-child" thing sort of contributed... (Now before I get angry letters, I DO have a sister, whom I love. That said I didn't have any siblings at my mom's house, and I didn't always see my sister at my dads, AND there are 8 years separating us, which means very little now, but when you're 10 and she's 2... big difference.)

What was I saying? Ah yes... so anyway... When I was a kid I always wanted to hang with adults and do what the adults were doing. For me, it all goes back to going to rehearsals with my dad and for some reason feeling like the coolest kid when I'd get to go to dinner with his theater friends or whatever. I loved adult conversation. I remember one particular night that really sums up what I'm talking about.. I was 12, and my Dad and Dee Anne had just directed Windy City for Footlighters (still possibly my favorite theatrical experience ever in some ways) and for some reason or another they took me with them to dinner at Barleycorns on the river with a couple of their friends. It was just so much fun! Listening to the general gossip, hearing about backstage antics, etc... I just felt so grown up. I'm sure it didn't hurt that as a 12 year old, I was capable of sitting still and occasionally even contribute in my own small way to the proceedings. I think people are always a little taken aback by the kid with the decent one-liners... anyway... my point is that I always aspired to be an adult, even when I was a kid.

Now that I'm an adult, I look back and think... I was a fucking idiot. I should have enjoyed myself when I had the chance.

Now that I'm an adult, I can't think of a single thing I do that for fun that isn't in some way a call-back to trying to be more kid-like.

Allow me to detail my weeks events:
Monday: I have rehearsal for a play. Where I pretend. Like in the sand box.
Tuesday: I have Trivia, which while at a bar, is basically a large board game with prizes.
Wednesday: Karaoke, where I am most reminded of those times where as a toddler my grandpa (of whom I was immediately reminded when I saw Gran Torino last night) would have me stand on the coffee table and sing "Take Me Out to the Ball Game".
Thursday: More rehearsal
Friday: Usually going to see a movie or going to Alan's house to watch sports or play video games. VIDEO GAMES.
Saturday: See Friday.
Sunday: More rehearsal.

So basically all of my liesure activities are geared toward acting less like an adult. Frankly, being an adult sucks. Bills, responsibilities, jobs, relationships.... clearly I'm not the only one who thinks that, because karaoke is fucking crowded. Trivia is fucking crowded.

I don't remember the last thing I had a serious discussion regarding my 401K or how Obama needs to re-consider socializing health care. That is, unless we were between rounds of Call of Duty, or waiting for South Park to come on. The whole time cracking jokes.

Last night, as I talked on the phone, I played PS3. It's how we relax. Why was I in such a rush?

The whole thing just makes think that I wish I had one of those Zoltar machines from the movie Big. Hanks put in his quarter and becomes an adult that thinks like a kid, and he has a total blast. Even hooking up with Elizabeth Perkins... (On a side note... is that, or is that not statutory rape? I mean... he was mentally 13 or whatever, but he was by all outward appearances a man. Are we looking at a Mark Chmurra situation here where the girl told him she was 18, so that absolves him of responsibility? In either case, good job Hanks.)

Next week I'll be going to Disney. I'm thinking about posting my first Podcast FROM Disney World, as it's my birthday weekend, and I'm pretty sure I'll be so effing high on Mouse that I won't be able to type. The last time I tried to blog from Disney, it failed miserably.

Big Boy Pants? Revoked.

Hey Folks-

So I moved in to my mom's house the other day. Let me just say that I'm almost 29. These two things should never be facts at the same time, but there it is.

In honor of my complete emasculation, I've instituted a new feature on the blog, starting today. I'm calling it "Big Boy Day". Essentially, it'll be Big Boy Day any time I feel particularly cool for living with my mom. I may not even say anything about it, but when you see the picture above of that tiny, angry child, you'll know... I am sitting somewhere, sucking my thumb, hoping that I may someday re-earn my big-boy pants.

Today I got home from work to find that most of the boxes of my stuff had been damaged by some water in the garage. So officially, my shit didn't even last a week before being potentially ruined by my decision to relinquish my big-boy pants in favor of saving money and attempting to build some sort of positive relationship with my mother. I didn't even spend much time thinking about all of my stuff. Just sort of took note, nodded, and went about my way. It's what I deserve.

Oh.. and as for the mom relationship status... Today's word is "TESTY".I'll be keeping you updated on that as well.

Starting in February, I'll pretty much be busy with rehearsals or the like almost every night, so I'll have a solid 3 months of being a hermit. Not much conflict should be able to arise. Of course, now that I say that she'll start each day by slapping me in the face, or something, and that'll be that.

In related news, my cats have moved in as well, and are currently dirtying themselves in the basement. They are yet to have full run of the house, as I'm not sure how they'll get along with my mom's dog, so I feel it best for them to sniff each other out under the door for a while. Disney the cat will never actually meet Cooper the dog, as she's moving in to my dad's place to fill the void left by the passing of beloved Polly last week. She's got a lot of work to do, but she's a sweet cat, so I think it'll be alright.

Pippin, I've decided, is my cross to bear. Pawning him off on someone else is the easy way out. I deserve him. It's what I get for going to the vet those 6 years ago and ignoring any one of the 5 beautiful kittens playing and sleeping and purring in the one cage, but rather being drawn to the kitten relegated to solitary confinement for being too mean to the others. As he looked at me with seething hatred, clearly plotting some nefarious act, I said "That's the cat for me!" and thus I have nobody to blame but myself for the wounds and the lack of safety he subjects me to.
Pippin is the black one. Disney the pretty, sweet looking one. She's much bigger now, as that was taken when she was but a kitten. She's also poofier.