A Stormgren "Craig seeking Women" Ad

Attn: Ridiculously awesome, sexy, witty gentleman that compulsively lies and is cooler than you and awesome and wouldn't lie about this (but is) seeking ridiculously almost-as-good young lady to accompany him to restaurants and to the hospital occasionally.

Me:
Generous- I would without hesitation give you the last Werther's Original.
Clever- I once tricked my mother into thinking that I was talented and ambitious and wasn't, in fact, drunk. I also once tricked a baby into looking in a certain direction, simply by snapping my fingers. I proceeded to laugh in its stupid face.
Handsome- A heavy coat of grease covers my face, giving the illusion of moisture. Impressive, if not viewed too closely.
Funny- I've never heard of someone being laughed into orgasm, but I'd damn sure try.
Rich- You will be handsomely rewarded with ice cream and money.

You:
Smart- I'm terrible at math and just would rather you do it for me.
Spontaneous- I want a young woman with spontaneity. Someone with the sudden urge for making out or even sex while waiting for a sandwich in a long deli line. I may not even feel like getting the sandwich. Maybe some soup to go or something... Oh ooooh, I totally love when soup comes with bread or those little crackers that you can break up and put in the bowl to give it a little more consistency and/or subtle flavor enhancement. That could definitely be a factor in my decision to get the food before or after the make-out-session/sex.
Adventurous- Maybe you want to rob a bank or hamstring a member of the local constablery. It's a good idea. We should totally do it. Or we could make out on top of a shark.
Pretty- Maybe.

Email me for digits. No one-night stands or framing me for murder.

Pics available upon request. Shipped in waterproof bubble mailer with copy of personalized mixtape. Track listing on mixtape comprised completely of My Bloody Valentine and Toni Braxton (debut album). Please send 2 USD for shipping and handling.

Hope to hear from your soothing baritone soon!

Note from the blogger: Though this personal ad is silly, I would like to relate something that really happened not too long ago. I actually once looked for DND players to partner up with in the "casual encounters" section of the Craigslist personals. It was an innocent enough mistake, but seriously? Fucking WHOOPS. It took about a page and a half to realize I wasn't in the "strictly platonic" section and that not all of the DND players in the Portland area are blatantly looking for sexual relationships.

Stupidly and completely unconvincingly,
Craig

The Important Handshake vs. Phantom Erections

Something about a job interview gives me the shivers. And the jitters. And the heeby-jeebies. And an erection.

Seriously. That was there to make you laugh, but I'm also referring to the very real problem that young men face on a day-to-day basis. In my case, multiple times a day, and in very, very unanticipated circumstances. Everyone (that has a penis or reasonable facsimile) can relate to the oft-encountered, never-welcome... mmmmmmmmboner during a high school class. We all understand how quickly this can escalate from a mildly uncomfortable position into a cripplingly embarrassing free-to-the-public sideshow. We all have our methods of covering up our jean- or khaki-boners (I went to a middle school that enforced a dress code policy, as did many of my friends, hence the "khaki-boner"). Many of us wore extra large hoodies so as to put one's hands in one's pockets and pull it down over the veritable "pitched tent". Should this be effectively countered by a call from the teacher to approach the chalkboard, proceed to spew ridiculous excuses such as:
"My legs hurt."
"My hands hurt."
"My hands are numb."
"My hands no longer work."
"My hands are allergic to chalk."
"Chalk is against my religion."
"As you well know, chalk once murdered my family and I think it's really rude of you to even mention chalk to me, let alone try to get me to use it for your stupid equation, you insensitive ass."
"I have a previous engagement with another teacher."
"I have jury duty."
"I have doo-doo duty."
"I would love to but I absolutely must wash my hair."
"I'm tired."
"I have an erection."

These are all tried and true ways of getting out of a humiliating walk to the front of the classroom, displaying your clutch for all of your peers to see. But there are worse scenarios for one to be trapped in while sporting a stiffy or a semi. You may be hard-pressed to think of one quickly, at least not before you continue reading. Hurry up and continue reading, because you probs could actually think of a worse sitch than the one I'm about to speak about but then that would make you better than I think you are and it would take you out of the writing for a bit, rendering your attitude toward this blog and its writing a bit more on the negative side. Stop reading my useless ranting and read the good part. Ah, what am I doing? Oh, here's the rest. Carrying on, then. One example of an unwanted surprise was when a young lady approached me at the San Francisco Amoeba and started asking me about the records I was holding for purchase. Of course, my immediate reaction was to start talking her ear off about the bands, giving her way more information than she could have possibly wanted. Shortly after I started yammering, though, a rather swift erection occurred. I don't think she noticed, as luckily I was carrying a stack of LP's around with me, but I was nevertheless embarrassed and ended the conversation quickly. An even worse situation that yours truly is well-acquainted with is to be unemployed in a new city. Even worse than that is being unemployed in a new city with few calls for interviews. And finally, the worst situation of all: being unemployed in a new city in which there are few calls for interviews and chronic hard-ons during the interviews. You read correctly. My interviews often include an uninvited "bonus". As far as I can tell, it has nothing to do with the interviewer. It seems also to have nothing to do with the situation or the environment being sexual or "naughty". I just have a slight nervous disposition, especially when my financial security depends on the next 20 minutes to an hour. This nervousness plays merry hell with the old reproductive system for some reason or another. I become erect and the harder I try to get it to go away, the more it sticks around, like it was invited to hang around for brunch. I, in fact, did not invite it out to brunch. I've been rather broke lately and have not even been treating my close friends to meals, so why would I do this for my penis? I wouldn't. There's your answer. But he often insists on hanging about and making a mess of things. Not a real mess. Not like a sticky one. This, fortunately, has not yet happened (knock on wood... ha, wood). So far, it has only distracted me from fooling my potential employer into thinking I'm a happy, extroverted individual and renders me somewhat immobile. An exit strategy is sometimes required as well if the bonus lasts until good-byes and fine-to-meet-yous are spoken. If you are not holding a folder with extra copies of your resume or perhaps some informative paperwork the interviewer has handed you, the situation may very well be considered botched at that point and when shown to the door, turn your front side away from the person conducting the interview, tell them how much you appreciate their time (without looking at them or turning your penis anywhere in their general direction), and rush quickly for the door. One could argue that since the interview is done and over and your escape will obviously make you look awkward and quite possibly even shady, your job opportunity is crushed and that you could have a little fun with the erection in this professional setting for awkwardness. Perhaps leave the boner out in the open while shaking your interviewer's hand. Sexual advances would be inappropriate but a wide, excited grin and an apparent oblivious-ness to your "tee-pee" could provoke any number of unpredictable reactions. Please feel free to use this idea, as long as you inform me of the results.
I am happy to report that I have since found steady work and do not have to deal with "interview-rections". At least for a short while.
Life has been moving along rather swimmingly. I am still poor, but will soon be back on top of my financial game. I have been dating recently, which is the most abrupt, awkward, life-changing event that's ever happened to yours truly. I should have seen it coming though. With my greasy hair, low self-esteem and bedroom walls painted so sloppily they could double as Tristeza album art, someone was bound to gravitate toward me. My home life is awesome. My roommates are all wild fucking people and we have to actually keep a tally sheet on the fridge to see who has been doing the most ridiculous-cool things (ie: dodging public transit officers, getting tickets for smoking weed in parking garages, wearing nothing but aprons during dance parties, etc.). I'm sure there's too much to tell you, but the good news is my close friend that you probs know from nosleepmachine.tumblr.com has started writing (though he is nowhere near finished with his visual arts habits) and you can find that at notabook.tumblr.com. This will probably soon be filled with stories about roommates and friends, as well. I hope everything is awesome with you guys that read this. I appreciate the recent verbal and written kicks in the ass to keep writing. I have been writing, just much slower is all, as my life is suddenly filling up with cool projects and people. I will keep you updated on the serious stuff, but will also never cease to reveal the embarrassing stuff. I know it's what you come back for. That's OK. It's what I come back for, too.

Out of the soup entirely, but still soaking wet,
Craig

The Grass-stained amorist

So it may come to a surprise to many of my readers that I have, in fact, starting dating an attractive young woman. Go ahead and gasp. I promise not to be hurt. I totes can't hear your gasp anyway, if you hadn't noticed. While most of my crushes yield the same results (*ahem* FAILURE) through action or inaction, this one- somewhat ironically- paid off despite my denial/avoidance of the whole thing. I do not recommend this strategy for anyone else. Actually, I recommend the opposite. Leaving the initiative up to another, whom you are not sure feels like taking it into his/her own hands or even if they feel remotely the same way as you do is like betting that the cake that you just dropped off of the top of a parking garage will not land on one very unlucky pedestrian. I was extremely fortunate that someone was frank enough with me to take the reigns. I was a bit too slow in this department. I know what all of you are thinking. "Oh my god, but Craig totally seems, like, ambitious and exudes, like, a super-intellectual aura." I know, I know. You might very well be shocked to learn that behind my brilliance-laden facade lurks an unerringly stupid creature. I was especially putty around this young lady. I was seriously very much like putty around her, though not the kind any desirable person would be interested in molding or even the "silly" kind of putty that can be used to press against the page of a newspaper to attain a reverse image of the latest "Get Fuzzy" or "Marmaduke". More like the kind of putty that a child would leave on the living room floor collecting dust bunnies and dog hair. I won't try and fool you. I shan't pretend to be one of the finer putties. I know my place in the putty world. I know what putty category I fit into. I'm not trying to be negative. I just know most women don't glance twice at me and it has a little something to do with the combination of my fashion sense, awkward body shape, awkward mannerisms, repellent looks, degenerating book-smarts, deteriorating common sense, lack of career or goals whatsoever, abrasive and/or untimely sense of humor and an all-around dreaded personality. I suppose I could have said "a combination of all of my traits", but I like to type. This young person seems to see through all or most of these faults, though, or maybe even enjoy them. God help her, if this is the case. Where I live, I mean, is usually enough to send any creature with complex thought processes (let alone attractive human beings) to turn and bound for the nearest exit. Who honestly isn't stoked on the ability to make a mess of a living space despite a complete lack of furniture, and walls painted so sloppily that they could double as a Tristeza record cover.
I have to admit, this all makes me want to buy her a car, build her a house, or take her out for an expensive dinner, none of which I am capable of. Shucks, another person close to me let down once again.
And though this situation is not yet ripe, I'm learning hard lessons left and right. I have to admit, however, I'm not sure where the "men are from Mars, women are from Venus" thing came from. Venus has a much more hostile, dangerous atmosphere and I find her atmosphere rather accommodating, like Mars. I'm much more like Venus myself, given the fact that only one probe has ever successfully penetrated the atmosphere and snapped pictures of its surface. This was not meant to imply anything physical, just an ornery planetary joke. Also, like Venus, I draw the least amount of attention of the terrestrial planets these days. Self-deprecating, inner-solar-system-referencing aside, I was speaking of lessons learned. As our present situation took shape, very quickly and awkwardly (like a romantic comedy written by a 12-year-old), my overall happiness improved, while a lot of other parts of my life slowed or came to a complete stop. Having this lady-friend interested in yours truly as well as living in a house with some fucking wild-ass friends has forced my social life into full-bloom and simultaneously shattered any other ambitions I previously had. I'm definitely not complaining, but I would still be willing to bet that shortly after the advent of the physical relationship, a number of as-yet-unknown afflictions to mankind suddenly presented themselves. A few of these being: writer's block, missed classes, unemployment, runny noses, tunnel vision, radiation sickness, food poisoning, ingrown toenails, burst blood vessels, genocide, global warming, jam bands, Danielle Steel novels, and the full-length feature film "Remember the Titans". Just kidding. I actually believe that if someone were in a physical relationship at a special point in time, we might have been able to dodge the bullet that is "Remember the Titans". I mean, what a piece of garbage. Who was digging through the trash pile behind some high-school-aged aspiring screenplay writer's house when they found that fucking gem? Really? Come on. I could piss a more interesting movie idea into the snow than what they came up with. In July. And execute it better. I could get really immature and call whatever studio "exec" that gave the go-ahead to that movie a "fart knocker" or a "penis wrinkle" but it would just get ugly and I don't want you to have to see that. Or read it. I... uh, whatever.
N E Wayz, things are going pretty good in this new city. I've some silly stories to tell already and I promise to get around to them. The two next posts should be (in no particular order) a Stormgren Craigslist Singles Ad and a chronicle of my job-hunting interview failures, tying in problems with unwelcome erections. I hope this post finds you all well and in good spirits, as I feel like a million cash-dollars myself.

Hopefully not failing for long,
Craig

I'm Like, sooooo Content with Impending Doom Pt 2

Any one friend of mine from the Bay can attest to my living with 5 or so people off-and-on for about year in a one-bedroom apartment. This was a necessary evil to move out to the Bay apparently, though I've heard of no other such horror story.
The night we moved in, on New Year's Eve of 2004-2005, we went to a party at the- what I now understand to be defunct- 58 Tehama art and show space. A friend of mine got so drunk, she threw her new year's glass at an overpass and started quite the trend. People got so stoked on this act of rebellion toward the overpass that for the rest of the night, many party-goers would end their drinks the same way. I went for an adventure farther down the overpass and tried to relieve myself underneath it. This should've been a simple enough task, except for the part where I fell into a giant crack in the earth. There was a large fault- I believe where tectonic plate-shifting had occurred- that my drunken SONAR had apparently missed. I fell about knee-deep into the large crack, scraping my shins from ankle to kneecap, and burying my shoes to the top in mud. I spent the rest of the night wandering around in mud-encased shoes, while people had 5- to 6-person kissing circles. After the party, on the way home, a friend of mine insisted on running up to every other pedestrian he could find, forcing a high-five from them and yelling "2005, year of the high-five!" He then lead us a good 10 blocks in the wrong direction before realizing where we were. Shortly before we arrived home, I attempted to give a friend of mine a downhill piggyback ride. She is not a heavy person at all, but then again, I'm not that strong. I got quite a ways down the hill before coming to a sliding to a stop on my knees, adding another injury to my legs that I wouldn't feel until morning. The night was, however, a triumph. We all are still alive to this day.
I remember when I first proved my worth to a friend of mine who lived in the Inner Richmond. We got ridiculously drunk (surprise, surprise) and decided to walk around (and terrorize) the neighborhood. For one reason or another, there were at least 2 or 3 computer monitors or TVs laying out in front of people's houses. We decided throwing these straight up into the air was a novel idea. It was. As much as I feel bad after committing acts of vandalism, this was extremely loud and hilarious, and we were both so lazy that we couldn't manage to run half a block before slowing to a drunken stagger and continuing our journey like cops don't roll down Clement St. every 2 minutes. Though I don't remember the next part, my friend let me know about it the next day. He was walking ahead and he looked back when I hadn't said anything stupid in a while. He saw me trying to pull a giant fern-like plant from a pot in front of somebody's home. He said that I insisted it wanted to come with us and kept pulling until all the soil was coming out of it, as well. I eventually gave up. Lucky for the plant, I have the strength of about two babies. I'm pretty sure that's how you scientifically measure human strength. In Baby Units. BU's, if you will. And I will.
This same friend and I continued terrorizing the Richmond disctrict for years to come. One other account begins on the 4th of July in the year of 2006. He and I drank- and this was not premeditated- a fifth of whiskey to the dome. To the face. "Straight to the head like a fuckin' Excedrin," if one were to quote Lil Wayne. Or maybe it was Keats. Anywho, by the time the sun was coming up, a conversation about my need for a shelf CD player emerged and in our state, we decided to drive to Stonestown to see if we couldn't find one. I had the money and he had the car. The math worked. We hit the road and shortly arrived at the vast empty parking lot that is Stonestown at 8:00 in the morning. We had failed to anticipate the fact that most of these establishments would not be open until 10 or 11. We stood around in the parking lot, peeing beside the van and probably talking a lot of shit about people and bands. It was very surreal and to an observer, probably reminiscent of a typical parking-scape in the Midwest. We got impatient and decided that Frye's Electronics was a safe bet and that the hours spent driving to San Jose would work up our hunger enough to justify a trip to Falafel Drive-In. This was an exciting prospect and we soon embarked on our journey while dreams of falafel, fries and hot sauce danced in our heads. Despite inebriation and exhaustion setting in at an alarming, exponential rate, we managed to get there in one piece. We did, however, choose to eat falafel first. We had to wait about 15 minutes for Falafel Drive-In to open, so we killed time at a thrift store. We then walked back to claim our hard-earned falafel. This was the last straw. We were drunk, fucked on coffee, tired and quickly slipping into food-coma. We probably should have died on our feet. We must be made of sturdier material than I think, because we didn't die. We even attempted buying a shelf system from Frye's. I couldn't read any of the product specifications, though, and my friend went back out the van, afraid that he might vomit. Since I had effectively forgotten how to read, I followed shortly. We made it back up the city by around noon or 1:00. I drank a bottle of Gatorade in a record amount of gulps and passed out 5 minutes after I walked in my door.
Just this summer, a friend of mine came to visit me in SF. I was feeling a bit down at the time, for no apparent reason, really. He was essential in plucking me from my stew, though, as he reminded me what life was about. Causing trouble. Well, causing trouble and not getting caught. Despite accidentally getting a roommate and I banned from our regular bar down the street, getting his car towed, and a few random acts of vandalism, he had also managed to get a bag of money and weed caught on top of an awning that he insisted would be an excellent obstacle to throw it over. My roommate and I then boosted him up on this stupid-precarious canvas awning above a dog-grooming shop to retrieve that dank. He was climbing all over this awning- this awning that was not made to support human weight- when a lightbulb flashed into existence above my head. It struck me as odd that no one had ever written a story about a young gentleman with the strength and agility of a spider. Feel free to use this idea as I haven't the time to focus on it. Too many genius ideas, you know. Not good for the old cardiovascular, I mean. Anywhat, I ended up making my friend sit there for an extra minute, while I took terrible pixelated photos with my cell phone, once again ignoring the fact that the SFPD patrol our section of Clement Street rather routinely. In spite of the obvious danger of law enforcement catching me in ridiculous, sometimes embarrassing, criminal activity, I always seem to effectively turn one cheek, and then the other. All with a little help from my friends.
There was a time, however, that I was not so lucky. It being my 21st birthday, I was well-ahead of schedule with my first legal night in a bar setting. I enjoyed myself and my friends were very generous with the tab I racked up. Upon leaving, I decided that urinating on the side of a Popeye's was definitely on my list of priorities. I was suddenly awash in an intense light and a booming voice intruded on my existence. It was two young members of the local constabulary doing their rounds in their gas-electric roundabout. He was yelling at me through a megaphone, tell me to stop peeing on the building. An obvious attempt to embarrass me, as their was no way I could respond with a smart-ass remark without having a citation or fine of some sort being thrust upon me. I kept my cool, turned around, and proceeded toward the car. They then yelled at me- almost defensively- to pull my pants up. Oh, yeah. That old chestnut. You know, how people wear pants. Especially when speaking with an officer of the law. They then gave me some grief which I'm sure I didn't register and they sped away as if on important business. Probably off to harass someone with a bigger nose.
Many other things happened to my friends and I during my four years in San Francisco. A few highlights being my punching a hole in the window of a laundromat, then denying it to the people that were standing there with me, while my hand is bleeding at my side. Or falling asleep in the middle of a rave that was supposed to be a young gentleman's private birthday party. A young gentleman that I didn't know. I drank way to fast and then slept for a good hour or two in this 95 Decibel pulsing organism of sound and sweating people, sitting on a chair while young people danced all about me and occasionally tried to figure out amongst themselves who I had shown up with. I, actually, had shown up with my roommate of the time, and he luckily woke me up and took me home early, so as not to embarrass myself further. These are just a few stories that I will not elaborate on at this time, mostly for the reader's sake.
My point being, there's too much that happened and I don't at all regret spending the last four years of my life in this fucking wonderful place.

I have talked shit and sarcasm to drunk rugby players, lived in amazing houses that I may never see the likes of again, punched walls, windows, and garage doors in frustration, bonded with my mother over food and wine in Napa and Sonoma, learned what a proper burrito is, gotten drunk and fired roman candles in countless public parks, cumulatively bought more records than I'll probably ever own for the rest of my life, learned how to talk to people, learned how to beat a joke to death, tactlessly slipped "science fiction is the only true form of literature" into conversation, scanned the Milky Way from a pitch-black, sleeping Stinson Beach, and lived with amazing strangers. Most importantly of all, I've met some of the most inspiring, loving people I've ever met in my life. They have befriended me despite my dizzying list of character flaws and rescued me countless times from danger, boredom and depression. All of the care they've shown me leaves me shaky but warm with gratitude. That's totally a weird and cheesy way to put it, but it's hard to describe how much I appreciate it. I learned that people actually give a shit. Sometimes even about me. I'm stoked on it. If I can ever take a bullet for one of these people, I hope they'll ask me without hesitation.

Forever making out with San Francisco,
Craig

I'm Like, soooooo Content with Impending Doom Pt. 1

Barf (I always wanted to start a post like that; sometimes I do, mmmmmmmmjust not in writing). Another debilitating hangover and a bewildering case of "bar-pocket". Oooh, gather 'round, friends. Let's see what we have here. We've got a couple of bus passes, a Pilot G-2 pen, a pack of Extra Polar Ice gum, some change, camera with pictures on it that I don't remember taking, drawings of the Cassini-Huygens Probe on a cocktail napkin, more cocktail napkins (none of which have numbers written on them), fuck- more cocktail napkins, my glasses that have been welded back together twice in the past 3 years, a cut-out of a "Get Fuzzy" comic strip, my cell phone with an overabundance of text messages saying "where u at?" and voicemail messages that can be summed up with "Don't come back." or "Hope you have enough money to pay for what you did.", drawings of the Galileo Probe (RIP) on a cocktail napkin, a collection of state quarters, a copy of the warrant for my arrest, a Polaroid of Robin Williams and I doing lines of coke, and finally, a lightsaber. I totally made up a couple of those last ones, and I'm sure you guessed as much, but most of those can truly be found in Craig Phillips' pockets on any given morning-after-the-bar. These are helpful clues as I spend many-a-morning piecing together the previous night, trying to remember whose life I ruined or how much property damage I managed to rack up. And you absolutely have to be quick in this business, the business of documenting everything silly, making no money, and avoiding as best you can the involvement of your friends. This particular summer's morn, I feel totes dry and nasty, but not so much that I will pitch forward and projectile vomit. That hasn't happened in years. I feel pride in this and disgust at the same time. I cannot deny the advantages of the hangover, though. This heart-slowing, brain-numbing, gag-inducing (much like my sweet embrace, ladies in Ladytown, Pennsylvania) effect seems to facilitate passage through my synapses, allowing me to write comfortably about the stupid things I say around women and even speak freely about my overbite. The hangover also acts as a sort of catalyst in whatever part of my brain likes to rant about things apart from the subject that I'm addressing and whatever other part of my brain likes to make really, really dumb lists. Whatever those parts are called. Whatever. What I'm trying to convey is that it brings about a sort of brain-storm, like my 5th-grade teacher used to call it. Not hangovers, I mean, but thinking. My 5th-grade teacher wishes you to know that she does not condone drinking in excess or underage drinking or talking to your class about drinking, especially when you're a teacher of 5th-graders, or even being hungover without having anything to drink the night before. I apologize for that (especially that last one- a bit nonsensical, really), but she likes to sit with me in my room, about 3,000 miles from where she lives, and proofread my stuff. That is, I think she's still alive, maybe. Back to the other thing about the stuff I was writing about before. I do, in fact, wish very much that my brain would actually storm. My reasoning behind this is that there is actually some semblance of organization in a storm. More so than usually occurs in my brain. My brain-storm would make my art (I know, you're wondering what my art is... it's this stupid. Quit being so fucking insensitive) like a storm as well. That's right. My writing is like a storm. Making the news. Causing people to hide in basements or bathtubs, avoiding windows and other things made of glass. Tearing the tops off of houses. Picking up farm animals and placing them elsewhere. Displacing record numbers of families. Prompting people to chase my writing around in a van with cameras, like in that one movie. Anyway, brain-storming is not my forte, nor is cooking anything besides pasta dishes. Once again, you're shit-out-of-luck.
Despite the hangover's effects on me, I manage to feel stressed and ecstatic at the same time. I'm merely a week from my big move. There is still much to do and many, many people to see. I'm getting a little emotional as well. If you notice an increase in "emo" activity on my last.fm (proxima1022 is my username, befriend me, get it, share it!), it is not because I attend high school or was recently dumped. It's because I have a great many memories in the Bay Area and made some ridiculous-awesome friends. I believe I will reminisce for a moment. A long moment.
I remember subletting with a close friend at 108 Shotwell, while a young gentleman freed up his room to us while he was on tour for a month. Waking up in the middle of the night to one of the roommates screaming and pounding on the door of another roommate's room. He was near splintering the door's wood, shouting "I'm gonna fucking kill you, you motherfucker!" This went on for close to 20 minutes, I believe, when he suddenly gave up, came to the room that my friend and I were staying in, politely apologized for the ruckus and slipped off to slumber. It turns out, as was explained the next day, that he was completely justified in wanting to kill the motherfucker. He had done something rather terrible. The aforementioned "motherfucker" then proceeded to move out in record time, and burn every other bridge available to him in his circle of friends. Good riddance, blighter-of-the-century. I hope you get horribly disfigured in a hot-air-ballooning accident.
Not long after that, a completely different roommate in the same place got very, very sick. We all knew that he was missing some work and definitely did not look very good, and when he emerged from his room occasionally for food or water, he smelled less-than-desirable. We did not, however, understand just how sick he was until it was almost too late. My roommate and I were sitting around listening to the subletter's records one afternoon, when there suddenly was a frantic ringing of the apartment's doorbell. We said "What the fuck", got up and went down to the door. A group of paramedics were asking us, "You from 108?" and we were like "Yeah, what's going on?" They looked at us like we were fucking out of our minds. They rushed up the stairs, ran in to our sick roommate's room (with our direction) and helped him out with a stretcher, if I remember correctly. A fucking stretcher. The dude couldn't walk. It just so happened that the smell that would burst forth from his room when he would venture to get a glass of water was indeed, piss. He was so sick (I forget what kind of sick) that he more-oft-than-not didn't have the energy to muster a walk to the bathroom and had been sleeping for about a week in his own urine. We felt terrible and neglectful but also wondered why he played it so cool when he would get a glass of water, like nothing was up. Shortly after, my friend and I moved into that room for a month. It was thoroughly cleaned beforehand, I swear.

To be continued...

Stormgren's List of Do's and Don't's (is that right?) During Intercourse

Don't:

read the Times
forget to stretch prior to
wear a baseball cap turned to the side
cough
sneeze
put your elbows on the dinner table
clap and celebrate afterwards
laugh because you were "just thinking about something funny, don't worry about it."
chew gum
wear socks
tell someone sarcastically "slow and steady wins the race" while trying to compose yourself
put it in her bellybutton
eat (...well, food)
stare
sob uncontrollably
fall asleep
do it in microgee (though this sounds cool, the logistics are truly terrifying)
under any circumstances lay a synth-harmonica track over a pop-ballad

Do:

(and this is very important) role-play Asimov's "Nightfall"

Example:
"Hey, so it looks like we're not gonna see any six of the stars in our stellar system for a night and the Apostles of the Flame want to self-fulfill an apocalyptic prophecy. Whaddya wanna do to pass the time?"
" Mmmm... throw your sex at me."

Oh my god, hot.

I would post more "Do's" but if I suddenly start dating (what does that even mean?) and she found out about this blog, I would no longer have any tricks up my sleeve. My sleeve with the sex list in it. I don't wear the shirt often because it's "dry-clean only", but it's really really nice. Came complete with multiple sex-lists inside the sleeves and beautiful faux-pearl snaps. That was a good description! Maybe after I retire Penis, I could put the sex-list shirt on Ebay.

Regretfully,
Craig

Since Times Medieval

Hello, all. So nice to see you again. I can't actually see you, but I'm sure you're all very smart, attractive and successful if you've chosen to read this. I am in excruciating pain right now. I am lying prone on my bed, staring (in typical drunk-Craig fashion, though I'm sickeningly sober) at my ceiling. My skin is on the verge of peeling and most readers might be surprised to find that I somehow manage to look white as hell, yet rather similar to a lobster, my prodigious red beak (or in lobster-reference, the rostrum) taking the brunt of the UV rays. Whenever I close my eyes, I am subject to blazing white-orange coronas. Wow, I should really stop looking at my ceiling light. I cannot move and don't have a reason to. I convince myself that this is all well worth the trouble. And it is! I'm going to get ridiculous-tan. And bigger. I don't know if any of you have ever seen muscles, but let me tell you, I am quite the specimen, appearing to most as a bulging, rippling hill. This simile works, too, since I'm covered in grass much of the time. But not the sweet leaf, really. Not the chronic. Nor the 'dro. Nor the dodey. Not even that bammer weed. What I mean to say is that I am blighted with chronic grass-stains. Oh yes, my muscles. Please do not let me get off the subject again. It's important that the reader understand how huge I am. It's like looking at the chassis of a Thunderbird. In fact, you're invited to call me "Thunderbird" whenever you like. I'm pretty sure the chassis is the part of the car that looks like a muscle or multiple muscles. Or -get this, young people- we could just say that I straight-up look like a muscle car. All red and muscle-bound. Wait, perhaps a Thunderbird is a muscle car. I could very well have fucked that up. I could "Wikipedia it" or "Google it"... nah, I'd rather not do the research. You will all just have to settle for being misinformed. This comes standard with a C. Phillips friendship. It all comes standard. Besides, I already looked up the scientific term for a lobster's "nose", so that's the most effort you'll get out of me. But back to it. If you could see through all the freckles, papercuts, and bruises, you might very well be astounded at how "cut" I am. The good lord above certainly broke the mold when he made me. It totally sucked that he broke it because he had the mold running on auto for such a long time that when this problem came up, he had to completely improvise on my looks. This is because he hadn't seen the products in a while and one must take into consideration the fact that he had been on his lunch break (a long one, at that, because being a god is totally a union gig). Then because of the improvisation, he got a little bit backed up, and his supervisor gave him a bunch of fucking grief. Like, really? Who does that asshole think he is anyway? He sits in his office all day, reading Mad magazine and drinking Rockstars. Then, he thinks it's just fine to come down to the floor and piss and moan about work getting a tiny bit backed up. Just a little? Come on, seriously. Sorry. I had to vent there for a while. About a god that doesn't exist and his terrible job. Really, though? Go to church people. It's like a free reading of The Lord of the Rings and they just give out wine for free. I would attend these events if only they would change the menu from those dirty-looking little wafers to something more delectable like a Rosemary & Garlic Triscuit or a fine imported cheese. Or both. I fucking love food.
Oh yeah, but I'm sunburnt. I know what you are all thinking: "Oh my god, not Craig. Not his beautiful skin. Who am going to rub olive oil on now?" Don't you worry your pretty little heads, ladies and gentlemen. It will turn from red and raw to a golden tan soon enough (well...). Besides, I'm pretty sure I couldn't even pay someone else to rub anything on me. They would -in all likelihood- graciously decline, half out of disgust, half because of the insurance liability. This is perfectly reasonable, but I would be willing to sign a document waving their responsibility in any incorrectly-applied aloe vera or oil cases and/or any effects to my skin resulting from said application. So... form an orderly queue. Right beside the line to my kissing booth and to the IMAX showing of Journey to the Center of the Earth.
I've often been shamed for the shade of white that others are forced to endure around me. My skin, I mean. Though, I wish this to change, I might, on the other hand, like to make an argument for what I would urge you to call fair skin (as opposed to me usually being called pale, white, pasty, and douchebag). From the Middle Ages through much of the Victorian Era, it was considered a sign of great wealth and beauty to have such light skin. So, there you have it. That's my argument. It was better back then. Not only would my looks have been more readily accepted long ago, in times Medieval, but I might also have gotten the opportunity to prove myself by fighting a dragon or two, or pulling Excalibur from it's rocky residence. For some reason or another, very few have been fortunate enough to see dragons around over the past few centuries. I don't understand why someone doesn't hastily add them to an endangered species list before they go the way of the unicorn. Extinct, I mean.
Having made my point, I would like to bring to the readers' collective attention that my appearance or personality (never both simultaneously) have received rave reviews as of late. This is an extraordinary development, as this is usually a bi-annual occurrence. I don't know if the messengers are pulling my leg or any of my other limbs (if so, I rather hope they're at the receiving end of the next front-page zoo tiger mauling), but most of this news has been delivered over the past month or two. I am frequently able to fend off the opposite sex for months or years at a time, my behavior and/or looks having much the same effect as a waved firearm in a public park, if you understand my meaning. Sends the other party running for cover, you know. With this new progress, however, I feel less like a satellite lunch and more like a dinner at a chain restaurant. I am by no means turning into a Casanova or any such thing, but I intend to venture into territories greatly unexplored by yours truly. With a little advice and perhaps a little needed physical force from my good friends and "wing -men and -women", I should soon be bursting forth from my rather unremarkable shell. This new confidence burgeoning bodes well for the reader as there is only one way from the top of one's self-esteem apex and that, mes amis, is down. That was French, for those of you not familiar with the term. I don't have time to translate it for you, because I have much to do and even more to write, but there are several places on the World Wide Web that you're able to find easy-to-use English-to-French translations. As I was saying, down. A graceless buffoon spinning head over heels toward the base of a mountain called "Whoopsydaisy"; that's what visual the thoughts of my future endeavors evoke. Because my shame and embarrassment remain a steadfast constant, regardless of any environmental variables, this should be an exhilirating adventure (once again, for the reader only) and I am most definitely ripe for rejection!

It must be noted that I haven't actually been sunburnt (or at all tan, for that matter) in a long time now. I've actually spent most of my recent time huddled in booths at bars with my friends, taking pictures, subtly flexing my muscles, and successfully hiding my problem skin by never using the flash. You are free to use this little trick, just be sure to give credit where it is due. And by that, I mean the opposite. Don't tell anyone about my bar-pictures technique. It is an integral part of my plan to blend in with non-pale individuals.

Utterly involved in myself,
Craig

Wet Dreamscape

Wow, oh-my-god, congratulations. You've totally struck gold by reading this, my response to others' responses to my previous post (Women: the Opposition). Writing this is greatly interfering with my weight training so I should be pretty miffed, but I'm actually a little overexcited to be able to use some of the material that's been accumulating in the old attic. And my underwear. N E Wayz, though this may read angry and it might come out like a knee-jerk (or circle-jerk, whatever you kids do these days) reaction, this is not the case. I merely want to make clear my intentions. I could probably write something of a mission statement for my profile, but I don't really have one and it wouldn't be nearly as clever as what I have there (ironic statement about my looks), so you're shit-out-of-luck. Plus, this completely justifies my need to expand on the previous subject a little, since I haven't quite exhausted my reserve of jokes on the matter. I probably never will, as I always find new ways to stumble awkwardly into an awkward situation with no apparent exit. These places (awkward sitches) had really ought to install- at the very least- an emergency exit or something, I mean, because OSHA is definitely not cool with this. But then they would have young gentlemen like myself setting off the alarm every 15 or so minutes, trying (rather ineptly) to escape the horror that is being in a Craig Phillips-y scenario. Like I was saying, as far as my trials and tribulations with the opposite sex go, don't fret! There's plenty more where that came from. Lucky you. I would also like to point out that this particular post was written in two separate states of mind. One, the blurry haze of early-morning hangover in the warehouse at my place of work. Two, the blurry haze of mid-evening drinking in my place of sleep, where I can safely scratch my butt, stare at my ceiling light, and listen to Brian Eno kick out the jams. That real heavy "dirty south"-type stuff that he's so well-known for. But because of how this was written, you will have to excuse me if the following comes off as a bit "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Drunk".
So, my friends have all been ridiculous-supportive and I'm actually getting a big-ass head (see previous post for big head) because of it, regarding myself as the F. Scott Fitzgerald of literary defecation. Poop words. Rub the poop on you. This is all well and good until a few of them told me that my blog more or less pleads "Hook me up!" Really? I must insist that these readers take the time to observe the wild Craig in the party-habitat. They may just find that I don't have trouble "finding" someone interesting or getting their attention, but closing the deal is much more calamitous. Whether it's flinching when a young lady puts her hand on my leg, or getting black-out drunk and deciding a scenic walking tour of San Francisco is more interesting than conversation.
I would like very much to assure you, the reader, that I am not so desperate as my blog implies or my body language or the pleading desperate look of desperation on my face. If I were truly so desperate to provoke an onslaught of pity-fucking, I wouldn't have written a post solely on my shortcomings. And if I truly wanted to get fucked through my writing, I definitely would've titled it something else, like "Sleep with Me for Financial Security" or "Mountain of Muscle" or "Super-sensitive and Cute" or "Conservative Haircut". If that wouldn't work, I could start writing poetry. I truly have it all worked out! No one will be able to resist Craig'lls the White (mmmmmmmmmmm understatement) Knight of Poetry. Here's a little taste:

Shorty
by Krayge Phillups

Oh, boo
Your eyes like marbles
but totally not the ones that come 50 to a bag or something
rather, the ones that you have to go to a gaming store and pull out the little tray
with individual compartments for the more unique marbles and dice
That's what your eyes are like
Your hair like a tree
beautiful and swaying
like leaves in wind
wind that gently carries scintillating aromas
smells kind of like food
but leaves me hungry for something else
Your face like the plume of Enceladus
spewing forth water vapor
but still, like, really really pretty
Mmmmm shorty
Mmmmmmmm shorty

I'm at a great advantage with my voice, as well, since it sounds rather like honey dripping off of a popsicle or honeydew melon or cantaloupe... or blood oranges! They're a bit tart, but that's definitely a fruit I can get behind. If someone would be so kind as to inform me of when they're in season... I want to say it's winter-ish. The first person to respond with the correct answer will get a smack on the butt the next time I see them. And don't be afraid, gentlemen. You are welcome to join the race to reunite Craig'lls with his beloved blood orange. I can produce purely heterosexual butt-smackings for males just as well and with just as much vigor.
The fact is, strange women that I am to meet in the future don't read this. I wouldn't even go so far as to call it some kind of absurd catharsis. This is for my friends to cluster 'round and laugh at (in a manner that won't hurt my "ultra-fragile-and-way-more-important-than-yours" feelings). Besides, if anything I took out Bachelor's Insurance. A "single" lifestyle couldn't possibly be as bad as Hollywood portrays it, It's already been 22 years of it anyway, and I'm becoming quite the expert on bachelorhood. I could go out and buy some crappy Ikea art or hang up neon signs in my (nonexistent) studio apartment that depict assorted beers. There could be a stack of Tom Clancy novels sitting next to the entertainment center, which would house the greatest DVD collection of all time. The Bourne Trilogy, Animal House, Scary Movie 4, The Last Boy Scout. All the bachelor staples, you know. They would greatly compliment my Playstation 3 with multiple copies of Gameday '08 (a couple extra just in case the first gets scratched, dude). I could hang a poster of a young lady wearing a bikini and holding a Corona on the ceiling above my twin mattress. Fuck this. This joke is taking way too much research. I think I made my point clear enough. If that's not the case, then who cares? You ain't my mama and you don't pay none of my bills. So mind ya business.
Loyal readers may have noticed that I recently got "faded up". Some of you miss my beautiful, long locks of hair, I know, I know. I can only assure you that it will grow back to party-length by the end of the month, just in time for my arrival in Portland, Oregon, land of a thousand tattoos and fixed-gear bikes. I cannot stress enough (no, maybe I already did, I don't know, oh well) how pivotal this move will be for me. I will reinvent myself! And by reinvent myself, I mean lose more weight and learn how to talk to women. It's going to be super-exciting and most likely fatal for all of those involved. I apologize in advance.
I probably shouldn't have filled this post with so much bullshit, but it doesn't matter, because I hate you. And, really, if if's and but's were candy and nuts, we'd all be fucking knee-deep in candy and nuts. They would be like everywhere. Backing up the plumbing and blocking roads. Seriously, people say "if" and "but" an awful lot. All that candy and all those nuts (kinda depends on which kinds) would be awesome and terrible at the same time. But, like, what if the candy was just those little orange and brown things that only really old people hand out on Halloween. The kind that makes a kid loath the old neighbor that gave it to him/her. Ugh. Those things are nasty and they get stuck in your teeth. The nuts though, I hope those are pistachios.

Always oblivious of your cares,
Craig

the Stormgren FAQ

As often as I am the life of a party or other social gathering, I am confronted with a great number of questions. I don't always have time to respond, and would like to carve out a little space for these questions here, while you all wait on my next post (which should be finished by Wednesday). A few frequently asked questions:

What were you thinking?

When did your nose get like that?

What are you looking at, faggot?

Who told you about the party?

How does your penis get so big?

Are you okay?

Would you hold this drink for me while I go talk to someone else?

Would you step back a few inches?

Really?

Seriously?

Why don't you go wash that off?

Ummm... what?

What did you just say about my rugby shirt?

Why don't you clean that up before someone steps in it?

Wow, could you put your shirt back on?

Wanna go get a drink sometime? ........NOT

I know, I know. I didn't answer any of these, which kind of defeats the purpose of posting FAQ's. But one could argue that most of these questions were rhetorical and formed out of hatred or disgust rather than genuine curiosity. I hope it was entertaining and somewhat informative anyway. Mmmm... no I don't.

Still immature as your momma,
Craig

Women: the Opposition

Let me stop all of you readers, young and old; my hearty, loyal fan base that reaches across deserts and into the most desolate regions with the harshest climates. Those of you that give my page about a dozen hits a month. Let me stop you before you question or scold me for the silly title. I, in fact, do not think of women as the opposition, for that would increase my troubles (which I am shortly going to convey to you) tenfold. They are not a football team to be outwitted at the end of a Hollywood movie about children overcoming adversity. In fact, I can't help but think that that would be much easier to wrap my very giant head around. And it is a giant head. The appearance of which is only exacerbated by the fact that my hair grows so thickly on top. I suppose it's more of a blessing than a curse, though, since my hair is the first thing women choose to touch on my person. An action which is usually followed shortly by a subtle attempt to wipe her hands on her jeans. I apologize for any of these past transgressions. I know every woman that has ever touched my hair is now reading this (sike). Swooning probably at my staggering writing technique and the irresistible charisma it implies about the man behind the keyboard (just take a note, young ladies, that I do have a clean hair schedule and that it is all right to touch my hair without getting violently ill on the first and third Thursday of every month and on any Jewish holidays). But I digress. I always do.
As I was saying, before I so rudely interrupted myself, the title is meant as a joke and a catchy title to draw readers (ha, made you read). Women are by no means an opposing force. They often times accommodate my awkwardness and try to initiate. I was sort-of-recently informed ex post facto that a young lady at a party was leaning against me and talking to me. I don't remember most of the night (being updated by friends the next day), but this is a very exciting development, considering the usual girl-leaning-on-me-looking-for-company situation would result in my stepping out of the way and watching the poor girl tumble aside. I believe you will wholeheartedly concur that this is much more pleasurable than a night of passionate, drunken making out/maybe-sex. You can see, this is a huge step up for me to not completely physically devastate someone that may (or may not) be interested. The last woman that was definitely interested was a while back (it truly has been too long), when she was attending a social event at my old house. She was plainly interested, and refused to be thwarted by a young gay man who insisted that we move the party elsewhere. I was sold. On the female. She was aggressive and very, very cute. Painfully cute, in fact. And she was so persistent in talking to me that I have to admit, I was a little dubious of her intentions. Maybe she wanted to murder me. Maybe she was so cute that I would've let her. I don't think I deserved to be murdered and I certainly don't recall saying anything bad about her mother. I came to the conclusion that she didn't want to murder me and that she was genuinely interested (in all things unmurder-related; wow, just made that phrase up). I even left my own party for about an hour to walk a few friends home and when I returned, she was still there. She didn't throw herself upon me when I walked in the door, but I noted that she made her way over to me almost instantly, ducking and weaving through the crowd like Muhammad Ali. A beautiful female Muhammad Ali. A sexy, curvy Muhammad Ali. But not like Ali's daughter. She's all right-looking I suppose, but nothing to write home about or write anywhere else, for that matter. Sub-par, you know. We talked and flirted the night away and she even participated rather willingly in my favorite event at parties; slamming on everybody else there. Interrupting others' conversations with mean comments and the like. Like I said before, SOLD. When the party-goers thinned, I made food for the both of us and she was into it. Some can wear the mask around me, but I can tell a "food-liar" right off the bat. She could have been in a drunken food-stupor, but she seemed to like very much my vegan "bachelor's pasta". Soooooo fucking sold. Like, wrap it up, I'll take it (though I in no way condone the treatment of women like products, unless of course, I don't know them, in which case I encourage you to be a complete asshole to them, male or female). After we ate, I sat around like a horse's ass, talking up a storm, probably about the moons of Jupiter or the advent of British sci-fi comedy, if I know myself (I don't). She eventually was too tired to wait for me to make a move and made swift tracks, though not before inviting me to some free food at her place of work whenever I liked. I, of course, never showed up (due to lack of courage, needless to say holycrapimsuchawimpandfucktheworld) and the last that I heard of her (through a mutual friend) was that she moved to Seattle. My friends berate me to this very day for fucking up something so opportunistic. She looked wonderful and was all over me like a rash. A sexy, curvy rash! I have another hypothesis about this recurring nightmare that is "failure to launch" at a party. I believe I suffer from a little-known condition, that I shall dub "Sexual a.d.d.". It's a very unfortunate form of social fatigue, wherein the subject tries too hard for the first half of the night and exhausts all energy reserves and clever dialogue. The once enthralling conversation deteriorates into glazed-over eyes and spewed-forth banal platitudes over a warm drink. No matter how I implement the "smoky bedroom eyes", show off my new socks or quote Asimov, I produce the same results every time. My twin mattress welcomes no new guests. J. Mascis of Dinosaur Jr. fame would ask, "How should I activate?" I have no answer to this and he would probably be pissed that I would so terribly misinterpret his lyrics.
I also have a severe problem in the eye-contact department and this does not help my case. Most people don't understand that I'm actually not a shifty, nervous person. Though I try to look up into a person's eyes during conversation as much as possible, I almost always concentrate on the lower part of one's face. There are reasons for this. One, being that after almost 12 years of going to punk, indie, and metal shows, my ears are absolute shit. I therefore have to look at the mouth often and lip-read as a form of hearing aid. The other, more personal (this is one of the benefits of being a devoted reader) reason is that I have a rather unhealthy (maybe not so unhealthy) obsession with the female nose and the space between it and the upper lip. This is known as the philtrum or the infranasal depression.
It's sad to think that I had great manly aspirations to dive into bed so often with women when I was younger, only to "grow up" into the small boy that I am and fall apart around them. Young minds think they'll grow up to be astronauts and be really great at fucking and rolling dice. This is only an illusion. Much like Santa Claus (is that a German name? or would that be Klause?) and a successful career, it's all bullshit. I'm the opposite of an astronaut, and I don't think I like dice very much anymore. I vow to find time to throw the bones around with my friends soon, though.
Speaking of astronauts, it does not help my situation to have only had utterly shitty jobs since I started working. A terrible, practically nonexistent career is not a magnet for women, despite what Hollywood would have you believe. I implore them to believe me that "college is totally on my to-do list". Yeah, like right next to doing the laundry, buying a time-share, eating a plantain, getting laser eye surgery, rubbing my butt on someone, putting my weenis in a vice, throwing a baby, throwing a baby at another baby, and fighting a baby. When someone I'm attracted to asks what I do for a living, I tend to shrug and get a stupid spit-bubble smile, avoiding the subject by making a lame joke like "play pro basketball" or "scare children". This is NOT FUNNY and I feel ridiculous, admitting that my real job sucks on top of just having made a fruitless attempt at avoiding that sort of conversation. Double-ridiculous. I often then lose what little eye contact I was establishing and glance nervously around the party or the bar and see some complete fucking asshole wearing a t-shirt that says "the man, the legend". An arrow is printed pointing up from the former and one is printed pointing downward from the latter. Fucking puh-leaze. He's making great progress on a group (a fucking group) of girls, demanding tons of attention and successfully touching each and every one of their philtrums. Someone I'm interested in, however, is having trouble even finishing her drink around me. I just pray to the god of awkwardly-shaped, pale bags of one-liners with nasally voices that this particular woman's type is white dudes with noses. Not the extremely attractive aquiline or "Roman" nose that completely bewilders me and pulls the switch on all of my thought processes. Just bulbous. Rather like a doorknob attached to the front of my Irish-catholic mug. A nonetheless practical doorknob that leads me unerringly to Thai food when the mood strikes me.
Despite my apparent cynicism, these are very sexy times. I'm mostly just kidding and totally not venting. Anyone who reads this probably knows me and therefore knows that I love to regale loved ones with stories of my failures and successes. It just so happens that the former are much funnier and exist in greater numbers. I absolutely endeavor to give satisfaction! Besides, I've made great strides in understanding the opposite sex recently, and have received helpful advice from caring friends. They are unwittingly paving the way for me to run back to them every time I need help. They soon will be more frustrated by my problems than I am. I appreciate it, though, and pay them back with humiliating stories. I think it's fair.
Let me warn you, this subject is most definitely not over. You will hear from me again. I need to work on lighter things for all of you to swallow, though. Like long-winded rants on pale skin and food. It's in the works just for you. I just want you to know I appreciate your patronage and if I could collectively give my readers (about 2 dozen friends of mine, really) a ring, I would. Then I would say "tricked ya, you just married me!" It would have to take place in California or something since at least half of you are male. You would, of course, have to front the bill for the ceremony since my income is less than substantial. It would be terrible for the reader ("reader" being the gestalt entity it is) at first, but you could eventually stop talking to me, divorce me, and take half. I promise not to be boo-hoo-butthurt.

Touch my butt,
Craig

Big Movement and Another Dumb Masterpiece

A curious case of moving ten hours away has suddenly come over me. I've decided to move to Portland on Oct. 1st, along with a gaggle of close friends. I vacationed there recently and found myself thinking about the move in the midst of the fun I was having. I almost couldn't have fun with all the fun about me because despite the fun-ness, I was always contemplating and weighing the emotional and financial stress it would cause. I, however, realized rather quickly that these factors were null and void (despite the added manic-depressive bonus of the visit being effectively sandwiched by San Francisco and Fort Wayne, my two true places to hang my hat, my awesome hat that holds reign over my lion's mane) in the face of a new adventure. Something to truly rescue me from the soup. Something like half of my friends finally living in the same city again! Quite the anomaly for a group of my friends, really. All of them actually wanting to see each other once in a while, I mean, let alone living in the same place. I blame myself for being so damn clever and handsome. The attraction to me is, in fact, so strong that it has an inverse effect on others' reactions, causing them to flee in terror from my antics. Just kidding. If you really know me, I blame everything on everyone else. Even after the recent earthquakes and floods I managed to carry around an "It wasn't me. I didn't do it." kind of attitude.
Moving on...
This is totally going to cause my wallet to collapse into black hole status. If anyone has a way for me to make quick money, short of murdering someone (well...), then give me a heads-up. You'd think that being repeatedly called a "pimp" throughout high school would open up brand new vistas of career opportunites. Especially in the pimping field. Nowadays, you have to have a couple of degrees and a heap of pro bono work under your belt (under your belt? really? like in your pants? I never got that) and recommendations, community service, internships, socks, you absolutely have to have new socks, haircuts, multiple haircuts, a photo album, a swiss army knife, the ability to recite Murphy's Law under pressure and more haircuts. Oh, and gel for your haircut. All for a job. A pimping job. I'm not even sure I know exactly what a pimping job entails. I think it's something like what I did on the previous article. You know, my butt making noises on the bus and all that. In fact, I would go so far as to say that this blog is pimping. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, you are witnessing literary pimping. What if I were to tell you that you could do this, too? All it takes is a hangover, a scatterbrained personality, and underwear to sit around in (there's enough right there to ensure bachelorhood for another few years). Then, just let the magic happen. I just wave my bookish wand (yet another nickname bestowed upon me at the bars, in addition to "fat cobra" and others; thank you young ladies) and ShazAmmm! Another dumb masterpiece!
But, oh yeah, I was going to say that I need money. There's only one option left. I think it's ultra-obvious and obviously a potential hit. Obviously.
Kissing booth! Step right up and taste the Extra Polar Ice! Your soft, moist lips against the barren, Arrakis-like desert planet that is my mouth. I can see it all now. The smell of Jamieson thick in the air and the sounds of quarters dropping into an old coffee tin with a spaceman or something else stupid drawn on the side. The women lined up around the block. One of those big New York city blocks, too. The satisfied customers staggering away, crying "sweet awkwardness, why must this end? He totally kept his eyes open the whole time!", only to end up right back in line. Now this is all I'll be able to think about all day. I blame you, the reader. Asshole.
Needless to say, I'm very excited about this move, as many barriers were broken for me over the course of the week I was there. This, of course, was all aided by alcohol and it's watchful gaze over me, but I couldn't very well do this anywhere else besides Portland. I might even meet people my own age in Portland. Probably not.
I'm sorry it took so long to get something new up, but I have many new ones "in the works". One about my pale skin and the problems it imposes upon me and one about "woman troubles". Weird.

Almost always sincerely,
Craig.


P.S. I would just like to note that when I made reference to my "lion's mane", I originally mistyped and it appeared as such: loin's mane
I thought this was pretty funny but couldn't bear to detach the reader from my obviously seriously, importantly, super-serious heart-stabbing-with-a-sharp-object-that-is-smaller-than-a-knife-but-still-hurts-really-fucking-bad post.
So I went ahead and corrected it, but made a note to let you all know. I'm sooooooo glad I did.

On Gas and Riding Public Transit

So after careful contemplation I've decided to go vegan, once again. I was vegan for a good two and a half years before "breaking my vedge". Soon after I had moved to Clement Street in the Inner Richmond in February of 2007, I gave in to the incredible drawing powers of Pizza Orgasmica, a pizzeria/bar with a rather fitting name. It was only a few blocks away and though they offer a vegan pie on their menu, it is no match for the limitless combination of exotic vegetables, cheeses, and if one so dares... meat. If I remember correctly- and I almost always do when it comes to a pizza pie- I went for broke with a zucchinni pie with mozzarella and ricotta cheese with a white wine cheddar sauce on cornmeal crust. My Native American friend, DuWayne, could vouch for this since it was his abundance of take-out magnets (ten get you a free pie) that got us this particular meal for free. It was delicious and I remember listening to Jesus and Mary Chain and Boilermaker records while ferociously consuming this long-desired, previously forbidden fruit. Though I would never put fruit on a pizza. Unless you get technical and count the tomato and a few other fruits that I would probably ignorantly consider a vegetable. You probably know what I mean. Like how many people still call whales "fish", though they're technically not fish. Most of you know by now, scientists would tell you that they're all actually overweight midwesterners (kind of a redundant term for these people since "midwesterners" conjures images of the obese) in an aquatic disguise, looking for free handouts at SeaWorld and Bush Gardens. I kid. Chill out, Midwest. You almost flipped out on me.
I love so many food products that contain dairy and meat, but I unfortunately have put on a lot of weight over the past year. It all brings me down very much, psychologically and even literally (gravity). Besides being a bit more lean, I also used to have a lot more energy. I don't know if it's because I eat a lot of pasta on a vegan diet and therefore ingest heavy doses of carbohydrates or what. Who knows? I don't. That's why I asked who knows. Wait, don't answer. Ha, you can't. Oh yeah... being lean and energetic. That's pretty much it.
I have, of course, a bit of pride about the fact that I'm not killing animals, at least not so many (I still often purchase shoes and hygienic products that aren't completely animal-friendly). My compassion for animals was my excuse for the first time around. This time it's a little more selfish, but at least my furry or feathered friends (and enemies) benefit as well. DuWayne, who I mentioned earlier, is going back to the old vegan ways, too. I believe it's for the same reasons, but regardless, it's much easier to do when you're around someone with a similar diet. We're both especially excited to be cooking more. When I wasn't vegan I had too many options and therefore could eat whatever I want. I would usually settle for something along the lines of take-out, since it was so easy. Don't get me wrong. There are some ridiculously good take-out spots in my neighborhood that are all too tempting sometimes. Cooking is becoming a bigger part of my life again, though, and I'm re-acclimating myself to the cooking environment. Hanging out in the kitchen will be once again the cool thing to do. It's a very social place. You can't very well avoid the kitchen and of course, the alcohol usually resides there. Seeing as how my fellow roommates and I enjoy the occasional social drinking, this makes the kitchen an ideal area to gather, drink, converse, and eventually cook (ie: drunken fry-up). Or one could pass out upright in a hard wooden chair with a wine bottle propped between one's legs, eyes closed and mouth ajar. Whatever you fancy. Whatever tickles your pickle or floats your boat. Those both sound nasty. I'd rather fancy something than have my pickle tickled. Maybe. There's nothing wrong with a pickle-tickling every once in a while, but I can't then help but compare my soldier to a swollen, bumpy green refrigerator tenant. For that matter, I can't help compare my penis to a giant boat to be floated. I insist that the word "giant" be used. I use "giant boat" at bars often, in hopes that some young lady will volunteer (subtly, mind you) to "commandeer" my vessel. My battle cruiser or aircraft carrier. Or in the case of a drawn bath, my U-boat. I apologize. I'm drunk-ranting about my phallic navy. A navy of one. I suppose I could call my boxers "the shipyard". Okay, I'm done. Seriously.
There are, of course, repercussions to a rather sudden change of diet. I have a terrible, repellent case of gas to deal with for the next few weeks or so, while my digestive system reels from the blow. It will be for the best, as my bowel movements (or BMs) were pretty unpredictable and unpleasant when I ate dairy products. A more or less copacetic BM will let you know ahead of time when it will visit, much like a friend or relative who lives a great distance from you. This ideal BM will also be an easy clean-up. Toilet paper usage, like a game of golf, is more satisfactory, more rewarding, the less strokes you use. Anyways, I came face-to-face with this gas problem on the MUNI the other day. I was settled beside an attractive young specimen of the opposite sex and there were no good-looking young men riding the same bus. This, naturally, makes a man feel good. That man being me this time. No competition, you know. I lack in several categories and don't need others highlighting these shortcomings in contrast. I was trying to look at her without looking at her, the old trick of staring out the window opposite your person at a 45-degree angle, and using your peripheral vision to glimpse the temporary object of your affection. Without my glasses, I already have the vision of a... well... someone who just has surprisingly poor vision. The corner-of-the-eye stare still works for me on occasion, though. I was trying to think of some reason to ask her about her shoes or her jacket. They were nice but didn't call for the attention I wanted to give her. I was thinking hard, though, rummaging through the bookshelves in my mind, tossing the volumes behind me onto the floor with not much more than cursory glances, trying to find a line. Any stupid line. I was desperate because I only get the courage to talk to strange women on very rare occasions. Either after too many drinks or when there's a full moon or something. I imagine if I found myself on an airplane with no pilot, spiraling toward the earth and certain fiery doom, I still would find myself short of words. Well, I must have racked my body, as well as my brain, too hard. I began to feel my digestive system a-stewing. I tried to constrict my lower intestine with great concentration. It kept on moving and bubbling, like a great train of gas chugging towards the light at the end of the tunnel. I dropped any previous thoughts on the young lady's attire and focused entirely on not humiliating myself. I was hellbent on not "expelling" on the bus. This force was so strong that I was very frightened that it would not only blow air, but quite possibly cause an unintentional BM (perhaps not the scientific term), something that I know not only senior citizens are prone to, but also is a symptom of a certain psychological disorder that I read about in high school. The name of the said affliction escapes me at the moment. If my heavy breathing and maybe even a crazed look on my face from the intense challenge I was undergoing were not enough to draw her attention, then my next action was. I just about thought that I would get away with it. About half of it ejected and was thrown clear without so much as a "peep". But my acknowledgement of the near-success must have relaxed me too much and the second half caused such a rumble as to vibrate the seats, which as you may or may not know, are all attached together on any given MUNI line.
"Oh Christ!" I thought, "That just fucked me." Hell, I had fucked the rest of the crowd. They were in for it, whether they liked it or not. I have no idea why I should word it like that, since I can't imagine someone liking it. I probably cursed myself a thousand times in that millisecond before her reaction.
Sure enough, she jerked her gaze in my direction. She had felt the veritable earthquake. It had probably shaken the foundations of the Bay Bridge, compromised the integrity of the Golden Gate itself, and rocked the Coit Tower into a pose mimicking the infamous structure in Pisa.
"Oh my God. Christ in a wind tunnel," I almost muttered under my breath, which would have compounded the shame I felt. From years of tongue slippage, though, I caught myself and shut up. This was bad enough as it was. It's enough to fall victim to flatulence in public, but to do so in front a gorgeous woman! Nor would I have wanted to invite the comparison between a wind tunnel and myself.
She looked around as if trying to pinpoint the source. Maybe she was trying to give me the opportunity to deny it. She was trying to grant me the right to an attorney or something. I tried to play it straight by gazing forward nonchalantly. I'm pretty sure I played it too cool, though, because she stood up and moved to the door about two or three stops before she exited the vehicle. She knew for sure that the goofy-looking white guy with the bedhead (not the cool, stylishly disheveled kind) and problem skin had just ripped a gargantuan... *ahem*... FART beside her on a crowded public transit vehicle. Awww... just plain inappropriate. I was more heartbroken than I should have been, for instead of the normal run-of-the-mill rejection or more often run-of-the-mill cowardice, it was complete and utter humiliation. I would have been beet red if I could summon any color to my face at all. I felt sick and probably turned more pale than one of those fish you see on "Mysteries of the Deep" when they dive in pressure-controlled submarines to the lower parts of the Mariana Trench. Minus the "bait" appendage protruding from the forehead that prompts unoriginal nicknames like "dickhead". Well, maybe it's original. I'm probably the only person I know immature enough to try to put down a fish like that outside of a pack of gradeschoolers.
For shame.


It should probably be noted that this was written a couple of months ago, drunkenly, and I have since ceased to be vegan. This round was short-lived and I had ought to be ashamed of myself.

Mayhaps a waste of your time

This new spot for my stuff may be cool for my friends to read... and it may very well bore the hell out of them. I'll try to keep things entertaining and not very poignant. Nothing, you know, to get the old tear ducts mass-producing. I'm incapable of just that very thing, anyway.