Today’s the day that I…do we still have ice cream?
I might be crazy. In order to waste time, all the time, I do several things, all of which exist only in the fantasyland of my iPhone. My malaise is quite brand loyal, as witnessed by my tangled white-cord bondage. I check Facebook…
I sit down to write with little focus, my digital tunes on random shuffle to provide inspiration, Sonic Youth crashing together on “Kool Thing,” its “K” representing the oppressive rampancy of racism and illiteracy and who knows what else in Gordon and…
The conversation began as it sometimes does, with me offering to help put a bag in the overhead bin. I’m a tall, polite Midwesterner; I do this kind of stuff. The older gentleman targeted by my largesse was on the shorter side…
Fitbit never lies, but I do sometimes, to get closer to the truth.
I morph into everything wrong with Silicon Valley and the world. It’s actually kind of pleasant.
My parents don’t use the Internet, so it’s OK to make fun of them here.
I had a few thoughts while I was running a marathon the other day. I probably shouldn’t put them on the Internet.
A short explanation of the lack of explainability of things.
I fill you in about what I’ve been up to because you’ve been so worried about me not blogging so much.
Tips to thinly veil your lack of empathy and terrible listening skills.
Thank you, Oprah, for invading my inner peace with faux messages of commercialized inner peace.
On the cusp of the big four-oh, I try to remember what it was like to care. Sigh.
A random memory buttresses a short opinion piece about Obamacare, sort of.
A quick post about Ted Cruz before he’s officially enshrined in the pantheon of Public Figures Who Are Too Easy to Ridicule and Therefore Should Just Be Ignored.
Sometimes blog posts should be poems. Not often, but sometimes.
At some point in 1984, a year of great significance to Orwellians and Van Halen fans, I saw the video for Suicidal Tendencies’ “Institutionalized.” It changed my life. Before that video blasted out of the cathode rays of our boxy Zenith, I…
Andrew Ross Sorkin says something, presumably about Wall Street being evil. Yawn.
Pandora lumps Johnny Cash into the same bucket as punk pioneers. Delicious accident? Methinks…I don’t know.
A supposed review of The National’s new album, thinly veiling my frustration with my lack of a writing career.
Why all the fuss? My mama is so proud that the President is my biggest fan!
“Everything looks bad if you remember it.”–Homer Simpson
I finally process David Foster Wallace’s suicide, thanks to Tiger Woods and Kobe Bryant.
Eric Holder clarifies: I’m the hottest.
I’m eating healthy and working out, with furious anger. Must. Not. Eat. Reese’s. Easter eggs. But they’re on sale now!
More than just a pretty face, but still a pretty face.
Speaking up for the poor saps in the UMC. Sort of. With nested puns.
Exhibiting lily-pad-leaping logic to navigate the corporate waters with innovative pivoting.
Pesky ground squirrels collide with classic Japanese cinema to further exemplify my short attention span.
Nothing makes me feel more at home than another inane, self-indulgent, three-minute Jeff Smisek video.
If J.D. Salinger finds out I put his picture on Facebook, he’s going to be very angry.
A random array of thoughts about taxes and class warfare tossed together to capitalize on the traffic inspired by a much-ballyhooed Presidential debate.
Navigate our fine earth with a decorative globe! It’s better than using Apple Maps! Zing!
Two fathers who let charismatic spawn escape their grasp drunkenly ponder what could have been.
Don’t have thoughts about bad thoughts about hating yourself because you have bad thoughts while meditating.
I am Gerald. You call me Higgs Boson. Let me help you understand your universe.
Just another drop in the bucket of anti-Comcast Internet-based ranting rhetoric. The company is inspirational, truly.
I’m confused about how we know stuff, and how Wikipedia is destroying our minds.
May the most stilted faux-everyman wealthy politician win!
Cereal-shilling vampires padding resumes…corporate chicanery knows no bounds.
I prove to a teenage ice cream scooper that I can eat a lot of ice cream, which makes me feel like a big man.
I don’t understand why I can’t play QUINCE while she continues to BABBLE.
A pretty singer famous for not being talented interviews that poor loser kid that the other kids are setting up for failure, like in “Carrie.”
How my time-saving devices eat up all my time.
Pointing out other people’s shortcomings is a shortcoming. My mom taught me that.
On the ontology of blogging and obnoxious pseudo-philosophical references.
Man I hate these things. Please read The Smatter’s, though. It’s special.
Cleaning out 2011’s notes and errata, and wishing everyone a more productive and ha-ha-funny 2012.
Note to self: Make more to-do lists, and write more blogs about the creative process around said lists.
I still love you, San Francisco. Just take a bath or brush your mangy hair or something. Anything.