Category Archives: Uncategorized

I Tried Writing a Blog about Inertia, but it Didn’t Seem to be Going Anywhere. Or, the Physics of Pancakes

Inertia is an object’s resistance to a change in its state of motion or rest.  In other words:  Not moving?  Not going to.  Not until said object is acted upon by an external force.

Or, in my case, I’m not getting out of bed until I smell breakfast.

Unfortunately, unless I slept through a rapid evolution in batter consciousness, I don’t imagine aspiring pancakes have lifted themselves up by their baking powder bootstraps and valiantly thrown themselves onto a hot griddle in martyrdom to my growling belly.

Which leads me to only one conclusion:  I must make or, god forbid, forage for said pancakes.

“The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.” – The poet William Blake, blabbering on about pancakes, as usual

Oooh, but inertia is a damnable foe!  It overwhelms me from every angle.  Instead, I believe I will toss and turn in bed, consumed by dreams of a full-service pancake delivery business existing near my home.

While necessity may be the mother of invention, laziness is the doting father of pipe dreams.

By full-service, I mean they wouldn’t simply deliver pancakes to my front door.  Heavens no, this would be delivery to my room, my bed, my mouth.  The buttering, the application of syrup – these things would be covered.  And, unless I’m going for that breakfast-y musk that the makes the ladies swoon in waves, a thorough post-meal wet-nap scrub of the ol’ face whiskers would also be included.

Before I forget, there would certainly be an understanding, even an expectation, of the customer’s/my near-nudity.  Pants are a horrible burden, (See:  The Tyranny of Breeches, my controversial treatise on these cotton and denim shackles) the very mention of which is strictly verboten.  After the meal, I’ll draw the dignity line at burping me like a baby.  A dotted line.

Imagine!  There could be a van with heating bins to keep the food warm, and in case a craving for eggs struck unannounced, it could contain a griddle in order to make them on the spot.

Don’t even get me started on the syrup caddies.  Mostly because I don’t even know what I mean by that, other than large, wheeled jugs of every imaginable syrup flavor:  maple, bacon-flavored maple, blueberry, bacon-flavored blueberry, traditional baconberry, boysenberry, bourbonberry, etc., and that’s just the B’s.  An entire alphabet of syrups could deliver a lexicon of flavors.

If you added Bloody Mary’s and carafes of mimosas to the menu, I’m thinking this pipe dream becomes an unstoppable commercial juggernaut.

The only foreseeable and pretty obvious downside would be to increase inertness.  After a pancake pampering, a buffet of syrups, a scrambled egg side, and a Bloody Mary chaser, the human body would be a breakfast-stuffed object stubbornly resisting a change in its state of immobility.

Regardless, I’m ready for such a service, and I eagerly anticipate the free market’s response to this consumer’s need.  Entrepreneurs, please make it happen for us inert, breakfast-loving dreamers .



Filed under Food, Humor, Uncategorized

Beard Trimmings

Pardon the extended absence – just returned from another profitable speaking tour pitching my radically successful life strategies.

Perhaps you were smart enough to catch some of the magic:

“Overindulge in wine, women and song, sleep in, gather bad habits like a snowball just barreling down a goddamn mountain…and still RETIRE in 2 YEARS!!!”

“The good news is you can EASILY do this!  But unless you’re ready to change your financial and personal LIFE, you better leave now!  That’s it.  Go on.  Get the fuck out of this Marriott conference room and don’t look back.  And if you so much as grab a free coffee from the snack area, I will tear off your head and turn it into my latest get-rick-quick juggernaut.”

“Tony Robbins is an amateur, a mere intern of Life, while my strategies will finally make you the CEO of your dream life.”

But I’m back now. I returned home to a relatively new apartment, which I’ve been meaning to review on this very blog for two months.

I live with someone I met on craigslist, and she appears to be gone quite frequently.  The other weekend, for example, she was gone Friday through Sunday, allowing me to indulge a pantless-ness unknown in recent or even long memory.

But that’s between me, my bare legs, and God.  And the accent wall.

Apartment facts:

  • There is a nearby unsecured wireless network called “shortygetoffthat.”
  • The two attractive young ladies from the apartment’s promotional brochure are nowhere to be seen.
  • The showerhead comes up to my tits.
  • An empty, overturned pint of Ben & Jerry’s sits in front of my neighbor’s front door. It has not moved in two months.

What others are saying:

  • “Whoooooooo!”  – Person outside my window at 2 am.  Probably not professional wrestler Ric Flair, but maybe?
  • “No stabbings yet.” – Roommate, Abby
  • “Get the fuck out!  This is my muthafuckin’ place!” – Next door neighbor, apparently informing a gentleman about the particulars of her rental agreement

It’s been a wonderful homecoming. I can return to my collection of tiny porcelain cat figurines,

and perhaps more importantly, I can end the painful neglect of my beard. It valiantly endured the rigors of touring, and with little to no fuss.  Sure, I slept on it wrong a few times and walked around with a cow-licked beard all day, but sometimes that happens.

To reward its patience and hard work, I took my beard to a full-service spa. The hot towels and beard bubble bath were only the beginning.

A purified-water beard steam and deep beard massage (w/the smooth, hot basalt stones) followed.

Next, a complete mustache pampering, with detoxification and healthy glow restoration.

Full beard replenishment came after a powerful antioxidant treatment incorporating a Vitamin C concentrate, algae biomatrix patches and a Deep Sea thermal mud mask.  Afterward, the mere sight of it melted hearts, inflamed loins, started regional conflicts. A dove wrote it a love letter.

I have a beard.  Or does my beard have me?  What is “my?”  Who is beard?  Can either truly possess the other? Can a man capture a river?  Am I Beard?

One of the beard’s many benefits/downfalls is to serve as a built-on bib. This recently proved itself true yet again.  The other evening, while practicing my X-treme yoga, I scratched my beard, and a piece of granola fell out.

I ate that granola bar for breakfast – ten hours prior.  Eight of those hours were spent working customer service at a print & copy shop.

I should now remind the female readers that yes, remarkably, I am available.  In my defense, it was a very sticky granola bar.  Very sticky.

But, as a friend suggested, I should make a game out of it, maybe even make bets with the ladies on what one could find and/or fit into the beard.

Yes, when life hands you lemons, you turn those lemons into beard-ade, or more specifically, a romantic beard potion.  You could hide a rose in your beard for a special lady!  And one day – are you ready for this? – a wedding ring.  That would be such a great proposal.

Furthermore, I was reminded of the beard’s great storage abilities.  The next time I’m walking from my car to my house, and my hands are full of grocery bags or the like, I will try to conveniently stuff my keys in my beard and shake them loose when I get to the door.

I must leave now – I have to host a webinar, and prepare with my vodka power shake, much of which will cling to the ends of my mustache.  At key points, when I pronounce words like “power,” shake particles will leap from my mustache for emphasis, like delicious, flying exclamation points.


Filed under Beards, Humor, Uncategorized

A Justice Was Born

I have a brother, and it is his birthday today.  While I cannot verify the authenticity of his birth certificate, and he could very well be a half-Kenyan half-Hitler hellbent on mass Marx-ification and the burning of Lee Greenwood records, I’m going to take him at his word, and that of our parents.

Here is a photo of the hoodlum in his pre-pubescence:

Seen here with his first piano muse. Also, still dapper in a sweater-vest!

We’re like Arnold Schwarzenegger and Danny Devito in the movie Twins, except I’m pretty sure we’re both Devito.

When I was little, he and his friend Bart once put my stuffed Alf doll on top of a lamp and burned forever a bulb into his non-existent rectum.  The rust-colored fur singed and turned a strange, bright orange.  Ashamed, Alf’s spirit was never quite the same.  I too changed, having seen the darkness possible in brotherly rivalry.  (Why Alf?  Why?!  He was an innocent bystander!)

The children of divorce, we were often out of each others lives, most of that fact due to an age gap and not living in the same place.

Also, he was in the Navy for several years.  Whether or not he was “in the shit,” I do not know.  Unless the scenes depicted in photos of him visiting massive bronze Buddhas and standing on the decks of ships with impossibly blue water stretching behind him count as “the shit.”   He did bring me back a sword though!

We would reconnect in strange ways.  My first summer after college I returned home and worked nights – 11pm to 7am – in a rundown hotel.  I drank a lot of coffee, wrote a lot of shitty poetry and feared being murdered by a drifter.  One night I received a phone call inquiring about a reservation, something rarely done, as we did very little business except for scruffy guys who worked on the trains, just looking to get drunk and crash where the day’s work stranded them in the middle of nowhere.  As I struggled to remember the process of actually taking a reservation, the caller revealed himself to be my brother.  He too was working the same shift in a hotel in Round Rock.  Bored and on the clock, we were able catch up a bit on lost time.

Three years ago, I was digging ditches and installing septic systems, while he was a sales rep for industrial-size septic systems and parts.  Now would be a good time to make a poop joke, but I’m running out of time.  See, I have to meet him, and his wonderful fiance Megan, at Trudy’s in less than 20 minutes.

Living in the same town has been good, and we’re as close now as we were as kids.  We have not yet realized the dream of starting our family funk band, Stanky Justice (or maybe The Department of Justice, J-Funk, Funk-udicial, Cold Funk Justice, etc.) but have made considerable inroads to starting an Olympic vodka-drinking team.  Actually, to be true – differences remain.  He’s vodka, I’m whiskey.  If I’d had any of either, I’d attempt to extrapolate on that as a metaphor.

Okay.  I have to buy my brother a tequila shot now.

Possible drunken update to follow.


Filed under Uncategorized