Ass Chill in Asheville (Moogfest)

Day One (Chromeo, Moby, Flying Lotus, TV on the Radio, Araabmuzik)

Traffic struggles getting out the Triangle area meant Little Dragon and Tangerine Dream were an early scratch from the schedule. As the long road unwound in front of us, we watched the temperature drop into the upper 30's - certain trouble for those of us who planned on being a White T-Shirt for Halloween.

CHROMEO. Even though we were unfashionably late, we arrived just in time for a blistering set from Chromeo.  The transition from cubicle cuties to icicle ice cubes wasn’t easy for anybody; Chromeo wasn’t able to play the entire length of their set. But holy f**k did they do their damnedest to melt the crowd.  Not only did they set an example for the rest of the outdoor performers to match, they left little doubt that Moogfest was meant to burn and we were meant to be the ins(pyre)d.

RecycledOrphan: Chromeo’s Gangsta sounded like orgasm poured into the hot mouth of a horny dragon.

mackensy: Chromeo sez #moogfest is "gangsta" for hanging in the rain for the whole show. I'm inclined to agree. #what

www.brooklynvegan.com

MOBY. After Chromeo, we headed to the Asheville Civic Center for some warmth and to join Moogfest’s Moby movement. During the fifteen minute walk to the Civic Center there were several discussions topics to choose from:   

1. What are some of the benefits of hypothermia?
2. If we set the city on fire, would they rename it Ash Ville?
3. Is that an icicle under that wizard’s robe or is he just keeping Moby’s microphone warm?

Moby put together the perfect performance for the time and place. The crowd left pleased, and I was surprised to have never experienced an “Oh, Moby, what are you doing?” moment.

codynapier: Moby was surprisingly awesome now TV on the radio #moogfest

TV ON THE RADIO. The night ended with TV on the Radio. They were tuned in to the right frequency and put on a solid performance that finished strong. I thought their best song was "Will Do" but that is probably survivor's bias, since I killed everyone who doesn't think that is their best song.

AARABMUSIK. I wasn’t able to make it over to Aarabmuzik that night, but by all accounts he knew how to blast off without any support from NASA, diet coke, or Mentos.

veryanal: The 6 minutes of Araabmuzik I saw might've been Day 1's best. Blistering. #moogfest

We headed ten minutes out of downtown Asheville into Tipi Camp. The owners met us with flashlights and hugs, informing us that we were the last visitors of the season. Given the choice between an uninsulated tipi or an uninsulated shed, I chose the shed and a long night of fumbling through fond memories, hoping for something – anything –  to warm me up. I haven’t consulted Urban Dictionary, but I believe that sleeping in a freezing shed when there are tipi's available is the exact opposite of Gansta.

Day Two (The Naked and Famous, SBTRKT, Twin Shadow, Toro y Moi, STS9)

What. A. Day. !. The incredible lineup and a solar sunstorm (approx. 5 minutes of weak daylight) made day two by far the best day at Moogfest.

THE NAKED AND FAMOUS. I experienced my first taste of Asheville’s acclaimed yum-yum scene with a Jimmy the Greek burrito from the Lucky Otter for lunch. Stomachs satisfied, our “clothed and unknown” group went to see “The Naked and Famous.” Performing outdoors, they cut electric ribbons through the air with steely accuracy. When they let loose it was an incredible array of lights and noise, spark and pattern. The Naked and Famous were gracious and excited; they seemed genuine in their thanking both the crowd and the festival for an amazing event. That said, I was glad to get out of the cold and head to the Orange Peel for what turned out to be the best back-to-back performances of the weekend.

RecycledOrphan: Slipped into Orange Peel for Twin Shadow y Toro y Moi. Place looks seductive.

TWIN SHADOW. Twin Shadow was a pleasant surprise and one of my weekend favorites. It was their last show after a year long tour, and they left it all onstage except their clothes. The lead singer, George Lewis Jr., was instantly captivating, stepping out of the shadows and up to the mic with a chuckle-worthy cowboy hat. Then the spurs hit, and Twin Shadow dug a hole in the floor and invited us all to jump in. The band’s showmanship was flawless. Just when I was wondering when and where the drummer would be featured, the lights highlighted the snares and he went brazen on every bronze disc he could find. Then, though seemingly impossible at that point, the pace escalated and Twin Shadow finished on a strong note with Castles in the Snow.

http://sidewalkhustle.com/twin-shadow-on-dirty-laundry/

TORO Y MOI. Though previously undiagnosed, Drs. Toro y Moi helped me discover on Saturday night that I “suffer” from Deep Vein Thrumbosis. They unlocked this secret during their enrapturing show at the Orange Peel. The energy and sound they produced is what I imagine fueled all VW vans in the 70’s. Want to know what cool kids acted like when our parents were our age? Just watch Toro y Moi. They tossed their bassist upfront and center for the entire set, unapologetically indicating to the crowd, “This guy is the important one. Don’t take your eyes off of him.” He let his hair hang over his eyes as he stared at the ground, fingers flying like lotuses over amper waves of gain. He never looked up; we never looked away.

brianyeazel: "@RecycledOrphan: Toro y Moi uses buttered microphones, sugared instruments. Audacity. #moogfest" Always thought of it as a tamed veracity.

Day Three (M83, Childish Gambino, Neon Indian, Passion Pit)

The final day featured several great acts. After a lamb burger at Boca on Lexington Ave., it was time for the much-anticipated M83.

M83. After “Midnight City,” the mood was subdued, almost relaxing. After being lulled into a false sense of serenity, the Claritin pumping through the recycled air finally hit home; the volume and pace intensified, and a bright filter overlaid the scene. Anthony Gonzalez knelt at the front of the stage and channeled the Unibomber, piping explosion through wires without remorse. Best finale of the weekend.

RecycledOrphan: M83 blitzed the crowd by bursting through a squelching, taut finish line tape. What a finale.

NEON INDIAN. CHILDISH GAMBINO. I stayed at the Civic Center for Neon Indian, but made it clear that I planned to live vicariously through the rest of the group which was headed to Childish Gambino. While Neon Indian cycled through every sound that God handed to heaven's marching band, Childish Gambino apparently came out onto the freezing outdoor stage in shorts and launched into one of the best shows of the weekend. Neon Indian was invigorating, but was never able to match the excellence I expected based on Psychic Chasms and Era Extraña.

b_mcnett: Neon Indian! Alan Palomo leaves the stage with his Roland arpegiatting in latch mode. #ihaveamancrush @moogfestpic.twitter.com/XrBG2DMm

JakeFrankel: Neon Indian makes me feel like I'm living in an 80s movie about relationship drama and skateboarding #moogfest

moogfest: Alright I'm calling it now- Childish Gambino has the best dance moves at #moogfest @donaldglover

PASSION PIT. Passion Pit added a “!” to the weekend, making Moogfest! a category 5 success. They did it all and then some, sending the Sunday night crowd into a fit of fitness as we jumped and pumped without pause. In the car headed home, bumping along with 4 sleeping passengers, I ordered my Moogfest! experience as such:

THE LIST:

1. Toro y Moi
2. Chromeo
3. Twin Shadow
4. Childish Gambino
5. Passion Pit
6. The Naked & Famous
7. M83
8. Araabmuzik
9. Neon Indian
10. SBTRKT

Russ, 31, realizes that his younger brother has never dropped anything

Russ Gestaro, of Mea Culpa, Minnesota, is creating quite a stir among local social media outlets. 

"Can you drop me off at the bar, bro?"
"Nope. Sorry. I don't drop anything."

Over the weekend, Russ received a blow to the head. This blow was an idea hammer, bearing the weight of a harsh theory - that his younger brother, Daniel Gestaro Jr., had never dropped anything. During the first commercial of the Minnesota Vikings attempt at a football game, Russ approached and then circled his brother (who was grabbing a snack in the kitchen) and asked him if he had ever dropped a thing in his life. His brother is said to have shrugged and said no, walking away with a taco balanced on a spoon.

Russ strenuously searched his memory, and couldn’t recall a single time when something had fallen from Daniel’s grasp. Suffice it to say, ladies and gentle ladies, Russ is growing up. Hard.

I'm in a Book! I'm Famous?

This is just great.

I Googled Wesley King + Raleigh + lost wallet and I find out things about me that I never knew. 

I should have drowned John that day we splashed together. I should have given him the ol' Baptist treatment... but held him under for just a few seconds too long. It would have been so easy, and I would have gotten a nice pair of water moccasins out of the deal.

But alas, his splashes distracted me from the fact that Vanita was a useless excuse for a human - even worse than he was. Why does it always have to come back to snakes with me? And is Vanita a poorly veiled caricature of Vanity?

How to Ask for Christmas Abs

An idea recently settled on my mind - an idea that must've blown in on the first chill breeze of autumn. This idea jostled about my brain for a few days, and then blindsided my consciousness like a ninja saddled to a seeing-eye dog.

The idea is simple: the perfect Christmas gift is a set of abdominal muscles that you can take home with you after the holidays. The best scenario would be to have that gift on Christmas Day, there hiding under your clumpy sweater... before the presents are even opened. In this case, your New Year's resolution wouldn't be to "lose weight," it would be to "maintain the health level I accumulated through the end of last year." Goals you say? Golly!

Sure, I could give this gift to myself, but that would be about as fun as calling Santa for phone sex. Instead, I think I'll give it to a few people around me, and hope that one of them gives it back. If not, I'll give them dead puppies for Christmas to go along with that flexing armadillo under their ribcage.

I think the best way to give this gift is as a loose collection of constraints that slowly tightens around the waist as Holiday chimes draw nigh:

1. No TV during daylight hours. This is one constraint that will actually loosen. As daylight hours lessen, you'll find this rule easier to follow. Of course, by then, you might have enough of a routine established with any of the following alternative activities that you may not have time for TV.
   
   
   Alternative Activities: Walk the dog (yo-yo or bark-bark). Read a book. Write a letter to an old friend. Attend a free class online. Watch a TED talk. Bite a few bulletpoints off that bucket list. Scrabble. Scrobble. Scribble.
   
   
   
2. Make your own lunch 4 days a week. If you forget to pack, hit up Subway for $5 footlongs. Use the money you save to buy something health related (pedometer, Groupon exercise class, massage).
3. Don't sit down, sit up. Move every 30 minutes. Sitting is for babies and their sitters. If you sit at a desk all day, feast on this. Start with 20 minutes of abdominal exercises a week. Increase as it becomes easier. Exercises are included below.
4. Walk or run ~3 miles 5 days a week. On days when you end up moving a lot throughout the course of the day, a short walk should suffice. If you were more sedentary, go for a jog or a take a longer walk. 
5. Feed with intent. No one else is to blame for what you put in your body. Unless you are a 2-year-old with a craving for blended peas, you should take a few minutes everyday to tell yourself "I choose what, when, and how much I eat. No one forces food down my throat." I find it inwardly amusing and socially grating when someone who has just inhaled their food needs to seek out others to point out that they haven't cleaned their plates or that it looks like they are "struggling to finish." As I said, you choose what, when, and how much to eat; no one else.
6. Feed to your need. If your are eating for longevity, health, and maintenance, 40% protein, 30% carbs, and 30% fat should be just fine. For steady weight loss, increase the amount of protein by stealing some percentage from carbohydrates. It should be noted that consumed carbs should be free of trans fats and processed as little as possible. No sodas, juices, flavored chips, crap snacks... you know the drill. I and others have had moderate to great success using a 4-Hour Body style diet; very high in protein 6 days a week, 1 "binge day" where anything goes and you are encouraged to overeat.
7. When you do bad, do it all. Then erase. If you are going to have a binge day, try to fit all the stuff you wouldn't do outside of that day into that 24-hour time frame. If you are going to drink heavily, do it then. If you are going to snort cocoa powder, do it then. Whatever you do, don't bring it back into your living space. Externalize those actions and material needs and cravings, internalize the great stuff during the rest of the week. Do everything with intent.

Crunch Time (Ranked):

1. Myotactic crunch with the "Peanut"
2. Bicycle crunch
3. Captain's Chair
4. Vertical Leg crunch

Thinking Off Your Feet

We live in a world full of complex problems. I understand, sometimes it's just too much. Sometimes there is so much pressure to do the right thing that it's hard to breathe. 

For example, what do you do when the pizza delivery cowboy gets an attitude and doesn't take the coupon your daughter made you for "1 Free Hug," and to make matters worse, your daughter is standing right there, watching the awkward exchange?

What coping mechanism should you adopt when you find out moon landings are as fake as Pamela Anderson's double-breasted fur pantsuits?

How do you avoid drive-by cubicle warfare when you've just finished a one hour game of mid-day basketball and you're toting a can of chili for lunch but have no bowl to microwave it in?  Well, that one I can answer.

First, locate two microwave-safe cups. These will be used to heat your chili - in a rapid fashion, quite fortunately for you. Two cups heat faster than one bowl. Because each second you spend away from your shoes is another second an innocent bystander can be sneaker attacked, it is imperative that you plan out this entire sneakquence ahead of time.
Second, take the shoes off in a safe place. There is no reason to assault a co-worker with your rancid sweat scent... unless they have been complaining that you grind far too much pepper for someone who is more sugar than spice. In that case assault away. If you take the more humane route, you're going to need a safe place to do the deed. The safest place, in my opinion, is the dark area under the stairwell.

Third, open your chili. If the can doesn't have a tab with which to unveil its innards, wrap it in as much paper or plastic as politically possible and head for the stairwell. You're going to play crack the can. This step comes third because you wouldn't want to slip on chili juice while disrobing under the stairs. Don't be silly, walk-through the steps in order.
Fourth, pour whatever chili isn't coating the walls of the stairwell into the cups, picking out any pieces of paper you see. Shuffle to the breakroom and pop them in the microwave for a minute... maybe ninety seconds. When you hear a beep, grab the cups and sprint. However, don't forget to apologize to the person that made the mistake of getting coffee while you were in there. You're a person in a hurry, not an asshole in a crackhouse.
Fifth, tilt the chili so the air hits it as you sprint back to your cube. This will minimize the amount of time it takes to cool the chili. When you recover your breath from the sprint and stairs, drink the food like you would a cup of treason: very carefully.
Sixth, put the empty cups into the ankle holes of your shoes. This simple action will effectively staunch the prospect of your getting noticed for being weird for having soggy basketball shoes in your cubicle. :)

Did you Mean Coitus?

I thought I would take a break at work to learn a bit more about the Cisco Cius device, which is Cisco's business-specific tablet offering.

I must have been in the wrong place at the right time because not only did I fail to get search results, I was assaulted with a very aggressive/suggestive search suggestion.

I was going to follow up with a "coitus" search, but instead I snapped up my laptop and hustled the hell out of there. I'm not in the business of getting caught in the act.

A post-coitus Cius face-to-face. All business, of course.

your body the magnet

repulsive endeavor
that i never
end over ender
remember the fender
refender the member
crumpled entendre
and tender

and tender

resend her
the ceder the cinder
the trunk full of clothes
plot full of holes
yes full of knows
holes in your hose
the penchant for ash
country hair flash
dusty insultress

dusk swallow us
Fox chasing chicken
impulsing in rust
plot starts to thicken

cant quite catch the cusp
questing ionic
circle to trace
participacing
particulation
ironic the chill
of break and mistaken

you enter tainted
room full of traps
insider floors
incinder the snaps
bird wet a nest
fish castanet

two enders end
over end
meet and repair
perforcery
this sorcery
is the blackset widow
tangled in bed
webbed to the window

Details.

Details.

I don't have the time or the money for details. This guy wants me to fork over $700 of my God-earned cash for details? The car is a fucking bruise-colored PT Cruiser. A PT Cruiser! This guy is practically certifiable.

I push the door open from the lobby into the quiet outdoors, but only partway. I keep my body inside. Just the eyes go out, I need to stay cool. For now. The parking lot is hot, shadowy, sparse. That's a word, right? Sparse? I think it just might be. 

My lucky day.

Sparse.

Inside I can hear "Jim" still slobbering bullshit into the mouthpiece of a oil-stained handheld, detailing a plan involving bleeding and brake pads. Disgusting. Beside me, silver balls acting as bells wait to cheer on my impending escape.

I think I'm gonna run.

Disconnect to Connect

To the mountains, but not beyond. Driven by the need to reset (to rest,) once we arrived in the mountains we didn't even attempt to interact with other humans. Sasquatch, yes. Definitely yes.

The leading party (more to come!!) consisted of five youthful coeds, of which I displayed the least leadership and the most aggressive 'quatch call. We arrived on Friday afternoon, ready to "camp." Camping turned into cabining, complete with leather couches and not-so-basic cable. As the theme of our weekend was "Disconnect to Connect," I asked everyone to pull the batteries out of their cell phones and keep the TV off. After this speech, I slinked off my soapbox to the empty stares of those gathered and tripped over at least three phone chargers in my rush to turn on the air conditioner.

On Friday night Logan taught us how to perform 'quatch calls. Our first round of calls only succeeded in evoking lust from a colony of frogs under the porch, but from there things got interesting in a furry hurry. Keeping a low voice and a low profile, I belched out the perfect pitch of 'quatch cacophony while Logan pummeled a tree with a hiking/wizard staff. Not five seconds later, across the valley and through the laurel, some animal - probably a dying goat, tortured mallard, or indentured servant... but possibly a 'quatch - answered the call.

It's kinda queasy bein' green.

We cheered for about as long as it takes for a park ranger to chop down a blade of grass before we realized that getting inside as soon as possible had just become our immediate priority. Logan turned to the door only to have the handle rattle uselessly in his hand. One of us had locked the door on the way out. Don't shoot the messenger, but I'm about to deliver some bad news. The 'quatch - at this point we were sure it was a 'quatch - called again, louder than before. 

We nudged the bathroom window open with the grace of a dying deer tick, but the screen still provided a translucent blockade. I was about to tell Logan we could use my knife to pop the screen off when he changed his name to Bruce Lee and poke-chopped the screen into pointlessness. We shoved slightly-sized Trevor through the child-sized hole and before long were safe inside. 

We didn't sleep well that night.

The next day we went hiking.

Why you shouldn't make fun of surfers

They don't have many friends, but the ones they do have are fiercely loyal and extremely dumb; a gnarly combination.

Interesting concept, surfers. Sandy little bunch, aren't they? Liable to start a fight, if you let 'em. That first time your bottle of $300 liquor disappeared? Surfers. The first time you got into trouble at the theater, who were the little punks ragging you on from the front row? Surfers!

They aren't everywhere, but they might as well be. They seem to grow off the crest of waves and step onto the land, mollified like bronze rays of sunlight reflecting off of a $300 magazine. They're ambitious like the last sperm whale to sign up to bring

Flowers to the Funeral.

They sing the praises of balance and curly hair like it's the oldest hymn in the Bible.They talk about tomorrow like tomorrow is the mid-90's. It's compressing, rerealistic, and unbustable.

Looking for more?

• 10 Reasons Surfers Suck (as if surfers could count that high): 8. They can’t even get along with little kids on soft-foam sponges.
• Black "Surfers Suck" t-shirt
• Truth in Stereotypes: Surfers is Dumb?

You Got Unschooled!

I talk a lot in interviews. Whoa, that has the potential for misconstruation. Misconstruction. Missed-mentstruation. Misunderstatement. Let me elucidate.

I talk a lot in interviews… about my approach to learning and where it came from; my thin-slicing, shortcut lifestyle. Besides that, I really don’t talk much. I let my smile drift forward, and let my headshots do the talking.

“Dad. Stop. Just tell me how the $#!+ to spell ‘sugar.’” 

That was me, frustrated, typing up a report on my 3^rd grade homeschool field trip to the Pepsi Bottling Co. I wanted to convey the importance of sugar in the soda-making process, but I couldn’t for the life of me spell the damn word, and my Dad is one of those “sound it out” types. Sure, grrr. The computer screen mocked me with DOSsy blue blinks. Who was going to read the report? Actually, that part was a bit unclear to me. Why was I writing it? That I could answer. I was writing because I loved everything about Dr. Pepper (and by extension, Pepsi), I was homeschooled, and I had nothing better to do.

Unschool Lesson #47: Power Stances

The Huff n’ Puff Post recently posted an article about Unschooling, which is the practice of allowing students to explore and learn based on their interests and not on a specified curriculum. Damn, talk about hitting the nail in the face with a hammerhead; suddenly I am retroactively an advocate and graduate of the unschooled lifestyle. I didn’t adhere to a lesson plan. Instead, I was released on a daily basis into the Colorado wilderness to “not die.” I also bathed standing up and showered lying down, but that is a tale for another day.

At the brawny age of 9 I was directing my 4-year-old brother to hack down cacti with a machete while I brought a pot of water to boil over a campfire. I was attempting to make peyote, something I’d read about in some piece of Western fiction or a drug-abuse pamphlet (same thing!). Once in a week or two, when I wasn’t reading or Unschooling my brother (or being schooled by my sister in anything that required athleticism), I was asked to complete a math assignment or something equally lugubrious. I would immediately fish out the Teacher’s edition of my math workbook and fill in the answers. Then, I would reverse engineer the problem from answer to question. After about fifteen minutes, I would be all learnt up, and I was ready to rush out into the yard to play lawn darts with the cat.

In the Unschooling article, they mention a kid named Xander who, along with some buddies, recently “spent a couple of months with a blacksmith to learn how to forge their own swords.” Stick that into your sheath and poke it. This little guy knows how to forge steel using advanced metallurgy techniques while his “schooled” counterparts are learning something pointless, like cursive. C’mon, if Latin is dead, then cursive is coughing up blood on its voluptuous deathbed. Little Xander must’ve been candy-striping with his sword again. 

Et tu, Cursivus!

The article also offers a peek into the life of “perky teen” Zoe Bentley. They never really get into what makes her perky, but one can imagine that one would encounter many perky things in a life so untethered.  Zoe is in hot pursuit of an expertise in Exogeology, the study of the geology of other planets.

I can see why an increasing number of parents are embracing the idea of unschooling their children. Short swords and falling space rocks. One kid is blowing flaming hot pieces of mediveal knowledge onto 21^st century steel while the other looks to the ground for crumbs from the sky to learn about the ground on another planet. As you can see, what you learn at unschool is nearly the opposite of learning karate on the playground (which is listed as #1 benefit of attending public school).

I owe much of what I am to the Unschooled lifestyle. Now I have a new term to drop on the police when they come around asking why I’m having so much cactus shipped to my house. 

It's Time to Climb

The Smiley's Project is just plain extraordinary. That's right, ordinary was hanging out, minding it's own business, when extra booted down the door and said "We're getting married!"

"We got married!"

Janelle Smiley (then "Janelle Leeper") is a childhood friend from my days in Colorado. Though I haven't seen her since before I took my first driver's license photo, it looks as though she hasn't been sitting around knitting. (If you do knit, Janelle, feel free to correct me.) Her and her husband, Mark, committed in 2010 to "climbing all of the routes made famous by the iconic book, Fifty Classic Climbs of North America."

When I found their site, I was so impressed I completely undressed. I burned all of my clothes. I have committed to never wearing clothes that don't have The North Face branded all over them. North Face, if you see this... I'm getting cold and could use an extra long jacket to cover up a thing or two.

• The Smiley Project's Blog
• The Smiley Project's Tweets
• The Smiley Project's Swag

Embedded below is the Smiley's video recap of their climb in Alaska. It includes great music, breathtaking HD footage, hot helicopters, and an endearing message about the best way to take your vitamins at altitude.

Devil Went Down to Alaska from Mark Smiley on Vimeo.

Not for Prophets

In June, at the 1st annual Cisco Volunteer Fair, I had the privilege to help present Cisco's corporate approach to giving to a group of 20+ area non-profits. I then led a panel discussion with a group of my peers. We offered insight into how non-profits can engage and utilize the unique talents us Gen Y kids bring to the table (but sometimes hide under it).

"Hmm, I could use this to get a leg up on the competition..."

Today, I took advantage of an afternoon opportunity to help out at The Kramden Institute. Their organization had a memorable booth at the aforementioned volunteer fair, and I was intrigued by their mission. What do they do? They turn tossed computers into asphalt; paving a road for students in need to drive toward educational success.

My palamander Luke and I set up the event to cross-pollinate two of Cisco's resource groups: the Early in Career Network (Gen Y) and GBLT&A (Gay, Bisexual, Lesbian, Transgender, Asexual) or (Gay, Bacon, Lettuce, Tomato & Avocado). We tackled broken monitors, a mouse nest, dusty keyboards, and crusty circuitry with a fervor only possible after 5 PM on a workday. We weren't afraid to ask the tough questions, like "Why are we cleaning these mice without giving them a little plug love and testing their metal a little?" I was amazed at the streamlined operation they have set up, and I did my best not to let my big mouth get in the way.

On the way out, I read a letter by a girl from Colorado who'd typed Kramden a letter, telling them about all the massive, impossible things she was going to accomplish with her new desktop. Here's hoping she moves mountains.

Yeah, I'm a mountain and I'm live-streaming right now.

Grind your Own Meat

It isn't uncommon for me to want some red meat once in a blue moon, but it is always rare. Whenever I can, I order as bloody as possible. In this day and age, if you know how to grind your own, you can get places. And I've been a place or two. At least one place, you can't take that away from me.

http://recycledorhpan.tumblr.com/post/8476035193

Ordering Meat

"Can I get medium-rare?"
I try not to order in declarative statements. Or unfinished basements. The waiter looks unimpressed, as if he's seen a half-eaten baby calf order deviled eggs from a silver-backed guerrilla. 

"Oh yes, you can order however you like. We grind our own."

Well said waiter - there is no counter-argument to that. When someone says 'We grind our own' you have nothing to worry about, right? Assuming they are keeping the incest out of the kitchen. And the can of balls well separated from the spices and raw ingredients. And they can ensure you the kooks haven't spit on - or shaken their tenderloins at - your soon-to-be meal.

Ordering Eggies

"How would you like your eggs?" The easy answer is over-hard. My friend Logan always tells me there are really only two options for how to order eggs: Fried or Fertilized. That said, I've never seen Logan unyolk and order anything but salad.

Watermelon, tomato, feta, unbridled passion.

Reading Between the Lines
Order whatever you want, wherever you are. They can always say no. You can nod and say "Yes, I would like that." If they say no again, grind your meat on the table.

Hosting is Hard Work

Party planning can be hard, especially if you're a social parasite. If you would like to encourage a friend to take over planning for the next bash, be sure to send them this postcard. They'll get the message and you'll be praised for your snappy, scathing pun-liners.

http://recycledorhpan.tumblr.com/post/8965420220

Never Forget Who's Voted for You

I know you’ve heard this from me before and it's going to sound like I’m beating a dead rocking horse, but my life is devoid of materials. It isn’t that I don’t want the goods; to feel a whole person, I need a wide selection of footwear, designer sunglasses, moderately priced paperback novels, and microwave-safe bowls just as much as the next guy. Unfortunately, I have some hot daughters living in the backyard that have torn through and eaten everything I just listed… including the dead rocking horse.

The Bench-walking Wench

When the dogs aren't testing their jaws of life on inanimate and often poisonous products, they are flirting with visitors to the house. While the driveway acts as a revolving door to our hostel environment, our adopted sassholes act as pushy greeters, offering to carry guest’s bags in with their teeth. Of course, this all takes place after each dog has shoved a nose into any new groins in the room; a strict check-in process, not to be disturbed.

We don’t ask anything of visitors but to have a good time, but we do warn them that by the end of their stay here they must vote for their favorite pup. Inevitably, opinions become polarized and tempers flare - ours and the guests mostly, but sometimes the dogs. When I recently saw Mosey cast a disdainful glance at Kona after someone cast a  vote for Kona, I knew it was time to teach her a lesson. Thankfully, she took my words to mouth and I watched as she digested everything I said. In fact, the advice worked so well with Mosey that I’ve decided to take it and apply it to my own life. It’s very simple, as I told Mosey: Never Forget Who’s Voted for You.

Two commas, chillin' on the floor.

I think each of our relationships is an individual Trust spectrum with a ballot box at each end. The boxes slide from Bust to Trust and multiple votes are allowed over a lifetime of interaction. It is important to pause often and check the boxes; I’d like to stay updated on who’s voted/voting for me and thank them for doing so.

I’m not going to thank those that elected me “Prom Prince: Wesley King." Votes for me weren’t cast at some grand event, they happen more often and in much smaller doses than that.

"Don't make me Power Tie you to the chair."

My preschool teacher decided against punishing me for being a “smart-alec” and gave me a kitten instead. A girlfriend’s Grandma and her Grandma’s friends gave me some money for “college expenses” because someday, they said, I was going to do great things. I barely knew them! A redneck gifted me a dollar to fill my flat tire... I gave him all the credit I could even as my credit cards were worthless in that situation. Here, you can borrow my car. Here, you can sleep on my couch. Here, you can stay here, right here, with me! Here, I don’t really know you but you can meet my circle of friends… I’d rather you do that than continue to stand in the corner by the umbrella stand, wading for rain.

I’m sorry to say that each of the above votes of confidence were based on a bad assessment. I’m not untrustworthy, but most of my decisions are path-of-least-resistance and you would get a better return tossing liquid assets into a waterfall. Yet people continue to trust me, and someday, inevitably, someone will do the same for you. I know, I agree, they are entirely too trusting! But whether the trust is small (they trust you with their time, their smile, their secrets) or large (horse-sitting, model train-set, experimental brain surgery), remember to thank them, or, at least, acknowledge their actions.

I’ve discovered the real world isn’t a vacuum, so I’m trying to suck less. Help me out… remind me of a time you trusted me so I can make fun of you for it. Just please don’t tell me which pup you like more; I’d rather you whisper it in their ears when you visit. Trust me, they won’t forget.

AARP: The American Association of Resplendent Penguins

My cousin has been getting flooded with AARP mail. Without fail, every time the mailbox is opened there is another bullet-point riddled printout unabashedly spackled with pictures of Jerry Geriatric. Jerry is usually using his feeble cane-graspers to massage an older woman who he is probably dating because she puts out… the trash every Thursday night, which he somehow always forgets to do. The mail is by far the most entertaining communication we receive as a household; all else consists of bills and birthday cards from our insurance agents.

Smile! The camera adds ten years.

AARP is an acronym for Appropriate Age to Rest in Peace. While this doesn't mean you must necessarily find the nearest bucket and kick it, it does mean that you and whoever you spend your time with should break out that bucket list and ravish it from top to bottom. Some couples have a concerted art attack; the two biggest draws on their bank accounts become museum tickets and postcards from museum gift shops. Others choose to find peace by swapping overmedicaiding for oversharing and overmedicaring. Some get angry at their inability to express their thoughts; life becomes effing ineffable.

Back to the mysteries of the mailbox. At first, it seems odd that anyone in our household should be getting AARP mail. Our average age is 23.52. However, when you take into account my cousin’s maturity level, the picture begins to clarify; he is wise beyond his years. When you witness the things he can do with an eagle-handle cane with exotic inlaid hardwood, it becomes even more evident that he is the definition of what the AARP hopes to be. Finally, when you find out that he recently added himself as my Grandpa on Facebook, you understand completely. It proves that what happens off of Facebook didn’t happen, and what happens on Facebook is the most vital of the USDA’s recommended daily intake categories for social meat eaters.

Age is so circularly peculiar. What once was the most arresting void – the three years between 18 and 21 – is now simply one collection of memories on the line drive that is life. As birth and death act as baselines, pastimes lose their significance and we begin to find appeal in the sexy wild pitches the future is sure to toss at us.

Bring on the wild pitches, bitches. My name is Wesley King, my cousin is my grandpa, and I collect AARP mail for motivation. Viagra is my favorite salad topping.  

White t-shirts: recently patented by young AARPers.

Blessing in The Skies

Friends,

I will always cherish the days of recent and hope for better to come. For that, I thank the likes of North America, that country of no small wonder which has given me some of the best it has to offer. From Wisconsin, Michigan, Colorado, New York, North Carolina, California, and Illinoise! (even one from Ohio.) Oh, and CHINA!

You have sat with me through free clinics about ankle health and wealth clinics about the mental self. You've humored me as a large man wearing NOTHING but overalls broke the news that the party I found on Craigslist was, as we suspected, strictly for gay people. You have guided me through the 72 oz. mini-waterfall needed to stay hydrated on "binge day." You have helped me write rap and love songs about global warming and speeding trains. 

You have touched me on the shoulder and asked questions you knew I wouldn't answer, because I always have to be the question-asker. You have seen me hot, you have seen me sweaty. You have seen me grab collars and defend bow ties. You have seen me with your dog and you have seen me onstage laughing with a gay ghost. We have watched a #TigerBleed #TigerBlood on the sidelines of a soccer match, and never once considered this inappropriate.

You have passed me the basketball and asked me to pass the ketchup. You have watched me embarrass myself and watched me watching you, which is embarrassing. I have slept on your couch and your coupon futon and if you're a good friend I've probably shared a hotel bed or tent with you. We've danced (no exceptions) and shared family dinner. You found out I was homeschooled and still let me meet your parents (except you, Zhang it!),

You've walked with me on the streets of Chapel Hill; you've watched me talk the breath out of a taxi driver; you've paid for my dinner a time or two. You let me give you a nickname and bad relationship advice. You've seen me smile with my eyes closed. You showed me your Golden Gate city, you've laughed with one hand in the air and the other on the handlebar of a hastily-rented tandem bike.

Me + my three best friends of all time.

You've talked me down to my face and talked me up behind my back. You are as a whole more than I deserve, but individually I see how I could have done better. Joking, haha. You are a Carbamaraptor taking shots at a Pink Thang in the lime-green leafery of SoCal. I have fixed your computer with one hand and broken the license plate off your Audi with the other. We graduated together, we were new hires together. We have lived in sin in a 21st century brothel, meanwhile, we've watched the universe expand. 

No matter who you are, I've been worried about you. You can always do better, be cuter, get richer or die faster, in my opinion. I want these things for you, but I'd almost rather we put that on pause and press play on Dexter or Californication. I miss you if you're gone; I welcome you if you're just getting here.

Why the Eagle Floating Above your Doorway should be Named Wes, not Mike

So my best friend Joe lives with my other best friend Pete and last weekend they decided they were going to name their eagle after me. Well, technically they decided they were going to name it Wes or Mike, depending on whose essay was better. So here is the essay previously requested, by my best friend Pete and my other best friend, Joe (the Taxidermist):

Why the Eagle Floating Above your Doorway should be Named Wes, not Mike

I'd like to quickly get to the point. Kinda like an eagle likes to immediately tear out the heart of it's prey; let's get to the heart of the matter.

An eagle named Mike is bound to be orthodox, loose of the loins, and full of bad suggestions. An eagle named Wes, on the otherhand, is sure to inspire wild pride among partygoers, raucous trends (in the sexual sense), and be a scary judge of talent*.

Cameron Diaz has a cousin who once said, "If giving a whore a tip is a sin, then I'm the Devil's avocado." Where does this insight leave us? Naked on a friend's porch... undoubtedly. But how can we apply this to life in the 21st century - or life in the fast lane, with Facebook in our left hand and MySpace between our legs? Just like this: An avocado is ripe for the plunging, ready to be eaten and succulent to the lips. Put it in your mouth. Put Cameron Diaz' cousin in your mouth. You won't regret it.

An eagle named Mike is like Cameron Diaz' cousin. Has a voice, has a reason to live, but no reason to "soar."   An eagle named Wes gets sore every night and goes soaring every morning.

An eagle is freedom, strength, courage, good eyesight, hunting, aggressiveness, a good haircut (an always haircut), talons, wingspread, an anti-owl political stance, liberty, a "can do, will do" attitude, and a crisp respect for female eagles (often referred to a feathered Fionas!).

An eagle named Mike is apt to be a hit at your party... but will anyone remember the eagle's name when they get home? No. Sorry Mike, but no. Nobody is going to say "Do you guys remember that eagle, uh sorry, can't remember his name. Help me out?"

Will they remember an eagle named Wes? Absolutely! "Guys, I felt so focused under Wes' admiring gaze last night! I want to meet Joe and Pete again!"

Sure, Mike might be laying eaglets around the globe at an alarming rate, but is that really what you want in a house mascot? Personally, I wouldn't mind a classy feathered fella named Wes who gives hope and pomp, AND circumstance to anybitch who walks within 5 leagues of his observational range.

Make the right choice. Name the eagle Wes. You won't regret the choice, but it might just change your life for the better. Be ready to be popular.

-Wes, the Human

*Only at wet t-shirt parties.

The Rarest Heiress

I don't want you to walk unarmed into a conversation about me. Here's the down low.

Sketch from Scratch

Teaspoon and I scratched our way through the Sketch 201 class at DSIComedy in Carrboro, NC. Each week we wrote a sketch and then went to class to get yelled at for being too racist, too sexist, or just plain unattractive. Then they took a look at what we wrote. By the end of eight weeks, our class size had dwindled to Three Kings: myself, Teaspoon, and a Brian. We performed four sketches on a Friday night to a crowd that was well attended by many of our friends. Sketch topics ranged from gay raccoons to gay ghosts to uncatchable pussies. Yeah, there wasn't much range.

Social Meat Eater

In an attempt to strengthen my online prowess and influence, I've decided to become a woman and start talking more. While that shouldn't need further explanation, I'll elaborate anyway. I found out through Klout that I wasn't where I needed to be socially. I have launched an attack on Twitter to remedy. 

The Plan? To "create."  Then "engage." Then "share." I've been historically cyclical at creation, which draws from motivation, determination, and emaciation. I usually keep my mouth to myself, but I've been opening it more and sharing opinions... whatever those are. Engaging is still an area that needs improvement. Help me out and engage on me.

Velocirapper's Journal Reveals Top 3 Things on Teenage Dino's Mind

Exciting news out of the Earth's crust.

Today, archaeologists uncovered what is presumably the journal of a teenage raptor and bad rapper: the Velocirapper. Filled with angst and scrawled sloppily on the barely-preserved wing of a pterodactyl, the diary offers scathing insight into popular dinosaur culture.

Surprises from the rap*:

• Among Ornithischians, the leading cause of death was unplanned parenthood and the resulting battle over who got to (b)eat the children
• Female velociraptors could not say yes to a dating request; they played coy, and suffered the consequences
• King Turtles sat at the top of the food chain and brought swift justice to underrepresented artists

*Some of the more lucid and "rappy" verses were lost in translation.

Horny Ornithischians

Velocirapper's "Die Already" Diary

Entry Important #2

Notes: Today I could count two to.

My Rap Journey
Horny ornis chewin', bruisin' on their babies,
Sabre-toothed mo'***kas spreadin' poison-tipped rabies,
The ladies I love chirping never-ending "maybes" (sigh)
Ladies, watch yourself or get a claw to the face, (power growl)
I can't wait to make it out of this place.
Pangaea is as pansy does, an unprotected nest,
I request to quest free, hollow bones in my chest.
I put my wish at the wisdom paw of King Turtle's flame,
Grant me pleasure, grant me protean, grant me unprotected fame.
-Velocirapper