My Favorite Rejected Names: Cigarette Butt and Ladyflower

Hardly anyone who knows me now also knew me as a kid. I'll catch you up: not much has changed. The smallest in any given group, joking for survival, pretending to be either slightly dumber or smarter than I actually was, depending on the situation.

But man, if I could be a kid now, I'd be the baddest motherfucker in the school. Have you heard about the new Crayons? It's the 50th anniversary of the big box of Crayons, and to celebrate, they let some kids vote on new names. And listen, I know that kids are the future, and that they're our most special natural resource, and that if you plant a tree of knowledge, then in the spring of the future---OH MY GOD THEY'RE ALL SUCH PUSSIES.

I'm sorry you guys. I know some of you hate that word. Hey, I'm guessing I've been called that more than all of you put together. You'll be okay (especially since I could kick like ten of your asses, AND YOU KNOW IT.). Anyway, here's the colors they picked: Purple is now called "Best Friends". Which isn't a color. And hot pink is now called…ugh… "Famous". Which also—surely this goes without saying—isn't a color.

Yellow? "Super Happy".
Blue? "Happy Ever After".
Brown? "Bear Hug".

This is why. Why what, you're asking. Why everything. All of it. Why are the glaciers melting? Because a sampling of children polled in a Crayon-naming contest picked "Giving Tree" as the new name for green. Why doesn't MTV play videos anymore? Gee, I don't know, maybe because your bullshit kids think that both blue and yellow contain trace amounts of Happy.

If we're ever coloring (why would we be? Play along), you better get creative with those names quick. If you want Red, you better say Dodge Ball or Coke Can or something, because I am not passing you Surprise Party. I'm just not.

Number 13 is "Make Tomorrow’s List"

I'm taking guitar lessons again. I hate it.

Wouldn't it be great if that was the entire blog? Just "Hate. The End."?

I'm terrible at it, and I want nothing more than to smash my guitar in the street (followed quickly by low-grade internet celebrity, cause you know I would tape that shit and send it to everybody I know). Anyway, my guitar teacher was here yesterday, and he attempted to teach me Old Man, by Neil Young, which is all picky and complicated and even though I know like a dozen chords, contains absolutely nothing I've ever used in a previous lesson. I nod at everything he says, though, and he always looks really pleased with my progress. And then I hand him a bag of cash and he leaves.

And I don't practice, at all, until the next lesson. I'm thinking that might be a tiny part of the problem. So, today, I added "guitar" to my to-do list. I only had a few other things on there, like "laundry", "shred" (because I have a stack of pay-stubs and bank statements, and if you just throw them in the garbage, in two weeks, you're like Will Smith, running from helicopters, and having to steal shoes off dead guys and pick locks and shit. I don't remember that movie verbatim, but still: scary.), "finish yesterday's list" and "walk Bandit" (yes, I have to be reminded).

So this morning, even though I find it frustrating and boring, I played guitar, just so I could check it off the list. And then, just now, after destroying my Secret Documents, I was confused to see "guitar" still among my things to-do. And that's because, you guessed it, after plucking away at Old Man for roughly ten minutes, swearing under my breath and actually once, out loud, saying "Ugh, enough! Stupid!", I took pen in hand and marked out the word..."shred".

Tomorrow? Lemonhead.

You guys keeping asking me, "Man, how you stay so happy? It’s like you’re constantly surfing a wave of dreams come true! I want some of that! Charge me whatever you want, so I can be happy like you." Fine, fine. Here you go:

Candy Pocket.

Here’s the deal, about Candy Pocket. You can’t just go putting whatever candy you want in there. It can’t be loose peanut butter cups, or a cookie or something. Think of Candy Pocket like you would your Halloween treat bag. You don’t wanna reach in there and get your hand all gross. My advice is something smooth and dry like Hot Tamales or jelly beans (today was Mike-n-Ikes. Perfect.). But, if your Candy Pocket is big enough, I don’t see why you couldn’t stock some well-wrapped chocolate, possibly of the Hershey’s Kiss variety.

And the idea, of course: emergency candy, right? No Candy Pocket? Fuck. I don’t even want to think about that. No, at this point, Candy Pocket is non-negotiable, like tooth-brushing or seat belts. But you have to pace yourself, or you’ll end up like me this morning. Ten a.m. and out of candy. Ridiculous.

And if you work with me, and see me eating Candy from my Pocket, you’re probably thinking "Son of a bitch! I wish I had some candy! I wish I was brave enough to ask that guy how to start my own CP!" Hey, relax. How you supposed to know if you don’t ask? And you might be nervous that, since I dig candy so much, I might not share. Well that’s just not true. You go ahead and reach in Candy Pocket any time you please.

Hey, read this instead

Okay, something more positive.

If you are the product of the public school system (I am), or have family or friends who work in a public school (I do, and have myself), then there is something of value here for you.
It’s a speech given by Dave Eggers, who is a great writer, and it seems, also a great person. Talent doesn’t often line up with integrity, so when it does, I feel blowhards like me should spread the word.

It’s about twenty-five minutes long, so you’ll have to take some time from filling out surveys, downloading music illegally, or watching the video of that chipmunk or whatever spinning around. Anyway, here it is. Watch it.
http://www.ted.com/index.php/talks/view/id/233

Nothing She Hadn’t Heard Before

Yesterday, I was at a green light, but there was a car stalled, sideways, in the intersection in front of me. The car behind me honked twice, and I, in turn, spun around, held up my middle finger, and said "Is there something you think I can do about that, motherfucker? Lay off the goddamn horn." It was probably an exclamation, but I’ve calmed down to period-levels by now.
Oh, and simultaneously? On the phone with my mother.

So, to those of you who’ve been wondering why I don’t blog as much as before (there have been two of you. Hi.), uh, it’s probably in the above story.

If anyone needs me, I’ll be on the couch. Bandit does this really cute thing where he curls up behind my knees.