February 5, 2010

Confession: We bought a haunted house…

My wife and I are in the process of buying a new house and I swear, I haven’t signed and or initialed this many things since I was applying for college. I had to use the force to channel my social security number, which I had stored away long ago behind countless song lyrics and pointless movie lines. We’re really excited about the purchase, but when I say we are buying a new house, I simply mean that it is new to us. The house itself was built in 1925, but it is in a great neighborhood and we got a pretty amazing deal.

Such an amazing deal actually, that I’m starting to grow concerned about the history of the house. Not so much the structural history, we hired an inspector, and for a small fortune he prodded around the house and snapped pictures with a digital camera of all the things we needed to fix. I’m talking about the actually history of the house.

A friend joked that the only reason we got such a great deal was because someone used the place to perform satanic rituals, or that someone was murdered there. Normally this is the type of thing I’d laugh off, but my wife and I just finished watching an unhealthy amount of Dexter in an extremely short time, and now I’m super paranoid that everyone I know or anyone I pass on the street, is in fact a serial killer. I’m in the process of searching all of my friend’s homes for trophies of their kills.

This paranoia has built to the point where I’m now completely confident that I’ve purchased the home of a serial killer and or Satan worshiper. I’m also convinced that although I’m completely joking (only 99 percent serious), my wife will not be able to sleep the first night we stay at the house because of this post.

I’m a little less stressed out now that I Googled “serial killer, murder, murdered, satanic ritual” and our address, only to have nothing solid pop up in the search results. I’m sure the house is fine, we’ve toured it a number of times, even at night, and found nothing strange.

Well, we did find a pretty eerie photo of a young boy, in the basement, placed prominently on the furnace. It looked like he used to live in the house, but it was pretty strange because the house has been abandoned for a number of years, then completely gutted and redone by a company who bought and flipped the place. They even replaced the furnace. So how did the photo end up on furnace? Who put it there and what were they trying to tell us? Oh shit… it just hit me! We bought a house that is haunted by a little boy. I’ve got to go call our real estate agent.

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January 26, 2010

Confession: I’m dying…

Recently I haven’t been feeling well, so I decided to see what an expert had to say about my symptoms. Today I was hit with some very bad news, I’m terminally ill.

According to the search results I obtained from Googling my symptoms, I could be dying from at least 10 different illnesses. I was surprised to find out from Wikipedia that all of the diseases I’m suffering from are incredibly rare, some of them have never even been diagnosed in the U.S.- just my luck.

I decided to seek out a second opinion, so I Googled Web MD and then searched my symptoms there, only to find out my first diagnosis was completely accurate; I’m dying.

I’ve always thought it would be difficult to find out you are terminally ill, but usually there is one disease you are fighting and the doctors have a plan to alleviate your suffering. In my case, it’s not that easy. Some of my diseases have never even affected a man before; others haven’t been diagnosed in decades or are routinely found in only animals. There is no cure, and since I forgot to bookmark the Wikipedia pages for each disease, I already forgot at least seven of the illnesses I’m dying from.

My only hope now is that NBC will do a mini-series on my heroic struggle, battling at least 10 different terminal illnesses (that number will probably increase by the time I’m done reading through all of my search results). I hope they get someone fantastic to play me, like Neil Patrick Harris, or get Justin Timberlake and make it into a musical.

This news is obviously upsetting, but it really makes me think about what’s important- search engine results. Before I go and draft my will— deciding who will get my most cherished possessions, like my iPhone and my Jesus bobble-head doll— I’m going to work on redefining my symptoms for Google and see if it will re-diagnose me with something non-life threatening; like a sinus headache, which is what I thought I had to begin with.

- Daniel Savickas

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January 15, 2010

Confession: I wear Gap boxers with Santa on them…

We’ve all heard the expression, “Daddy’s little girl,” and everyone knows atleast one Dad who simply does not want to see his daughter turn into a young woman. The reason for this is simple, dads were once young men and long before that they were boys; in the middle lies the teenage years, and all dads know what they were like as teenage boys and more importantly, what they wanted from teenage girls. So dads keep their daughters on a tight leash and try to intimidate their daughter’s boyfriends, hoping and praying that their daughters will walk entirely unnoticed throughout their teenage years.

I’ve begun to realize that although mothers don’t go through the exact same experience, they do go through something similar with their sons. Now, most mothers aren’t worried about their sons falling prey to some smooth talking high school girl, but they do go through a stage in their parenting where they want to turn their sons into a “Mama’s boy.”

While mothers are less likely to try and intimidate their son’s girlfriends by showing them their gun collection or telling them, “I have a shovel and big back yard, I don’t think anyone would notice you’re missing,” I think they have a much more passive aggressive way of trying to accomplish the same thing.

I think mothers can, and will do little things to sabotage their son’s love lives in order to keep women away from their sons and keep their sons close to home. The reason for my hypothesis is simple: flannel boxers from the Gap.

The boxers aren’t even really flannel, in fact, they’re 100 percent cotton, but they feel as hot as flannel without any of the flexibility.

Now, I used to think that my mother was just a thrifty shopper for buying Christmas themed boxers in the spring and sending me a box full of them, but recently I’ve begun to question her motives.

Think about it, what woman in here right mind is going to date a grown man wearing navy blued boxers with little snowmen sporting Santa Clause hats? Keep reading →

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January 8, 2010

Confession: TGIF

I’ve always hated the saying TGIF and I’m not sure why. If I could establish a clear relationship between the abbreviation and the run of Friday night televisions shows it represented while I was in elementary and middle school, I’m sure I’d have fonder feelings towards it.

I mean, come on. Who didn’t love themselves some Urkel? For me, Urkel represented one thing, and one thing only- pure comedic genius. And who could forget Full House? The first time I headed into San Francisco I lowered the top on my Jeep and imagined I was Danny Tanner cruising across the Golden Gate Bridge in a red convertible with Uncle Jessie and Uncle Joey. CUT. IT. OUT! Of course the first time I drove across the bridge, as well as the second and third, it was so foggy I could barely see. I thought to myself, “Danny Tanner lied to me!”

Now days I don’t really associate Friday nights with quality television broadcasting. I guess if I associate it with anything I associate Fridays with the freedoms Saturday mornings provide. Friday means I don’t have to wake up early the following morning and if I want I can go out, stay up late and do whatever I want for as late as I want. But I usually don’t, the older I get the more likely I am to stay in on Friday nights, go to bed early and think back to a time where Friday nights meant ordering pizza, drinking massive amounts of pop and hanging out with my homeboys Urkel, Danny Tanner an Uncle Jessie.

- Daniel Savickas

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January 6, 2010

Confession: My ass is literally worried about airport security. And Charlie Sheen…

I’m getting on a plane to head to Vegas in a month and all I can do is think about is a recent news article I read. In Saudi Arabia a member of Al Qaeda smuggled a bomb up his ass in attempt to kill Prince Mohammed Bin Nayef, head of Saudi Arabia’s counter terrorism operations, in his palace. The report was alarming to me, since, according to the broadcaster, the bomber “avoided detection by two sets of airport security, including metal detectors and palace security” before gaining access to the palace. Apparently, the technology that is necessary to check for bombs being stored in ones anal cavity does not exist yet. The article maintains that Al Qaeda lifted the technology, ie. cramming things up your ass, from drug smugglers- yet another reason we should end the war on drugs, in my humble opinion.

The saddest part about this story, to me, is that even if this suicide bomber was greeted by Allah, and a handful of virgins, he did not mutter the only phrase that would’ve made this a tolerable or worthy act. “Rectum, I damn near killed ‘em!”

And this was the case, because although this asshole (no pun intended) managed to cram a bomb up his butt, he literally only blew up his own ass. The bomb was apparently detonated by a text message, and although security officials have no clue what the text said, I believe it was something like this: “OMG! I still can’t believe you shoved a bomb up your ass, you’re so gay! JK! Good luck, and know that we think you’re the bomb! No homo. L8.”

The Prince was mildly injured in the explosion, but the real story is, what’s next for airport security? Then on Christmas day, after asking myself that question, another man smuggled an explosive material onto a plane underneath his taint.

After the shoe bomber people had to start walking through airport security wearing socks or barefoot, while their shoes were x-rayed. Then there was the liquid bomber, the people that were going to mix liquids together to blow a plane out of the air. This resulted in people having to pack Barbie sized portions of shampoo, toothpaste and any other remotely liquid looking substance. Now we’ve had two bombers with explosive materials up or stored directly near their ass. What’s it going to take to clear airport security now?

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December 9, 2009

Confession: I miss smoking

I’ve often wondered what it is that keeps me from writing a novel or a collection of short stories. Inevitably it’s A.D.D. or my sheer lack of motivation, but I prefer to pretend it’s something much deeper than that, perhaps something I can simply acquire by going to the store, or better yet, buy it on-line from Zappos. I’ve seen plenty of movies involving accomplished authors, and as I began to look back at these characters for clues of what makes someone a published, successful, writer, a trait emerged. At first it wasn’t easy to see, but after awhile it was as clear as day and it hit me like a brick – all great writers are smokers.

I remember back in college when it seemed like all I did was write words on paper and I smoked then. Why did I ever quit? David Sedaris quit, but when he smoked it provided him with plenty of content, and when he did finally quit, he wrote half of a book about his journey to become smoke-free.

I remember my first cigarette clearly. Nine months shy of my 18th birthday, I bummed a Marlboro Red off of a friend. To be honest, I’m not sure I’d ever felt cooler than the first time I lit up that cigarette, except maybe the first time I lit up in front of a girl who smoked. I’d pretended to smoke thousands of times before, but somehow the awful taste of tobacco just made me feel so much cooler than all of those times I’d lit a fake cigarette made out of marshmallow, or simply held my fingers up to my mouth in a thin horizontal V.

I wasn’t too graceful with my first cig, but my years of pretending and watching R-rated movies had given me some clue of how to properly flick the ash from the end of my phallic torch. The awesomeness I’d felt with my first few drags quickly turned into what can only be described as flu-like symptoms. Before I knew it, I’d ditched the cowboy-killer into a 20-oz bottle of Cherry Coke and jumped in the nearby lake to cool off. Cold sweats seemed to plague every inch of my body. Although I didn’t throw-up, I came close; and yet this was not the last time I smoked. Keep reading →

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December 7, 2009

Confession: I believe in Santa Claus, again…

I still haven’t decided whether or not I believe in Santa Claus. When I was a child, I believed in him without a doubt and I was rewarded with a stocking full of candy and plenty of presents under the tree. One time I even received a note from Santa, which was horribly scribbled. He apologized for the poor penmanship, citing bad weather and a bumpy sleigh ride down from the North Pole. As I got older my faith in Santa faded, as did the number of presents under the tree and the amount of candy in my stocking; until one year I just flat-out no longer believed. And since then, Christmas has never been the same.

I understand that Santa is the single greatest tool in motivating a child. Even in mid-July there is a chance that threatening a child with, “Santa is watching, you don’t want to get on his naughty list do you?” will result in the child instantly cleaning his or her bedroom or removing their fist from a sibling’s face. Once fall hits and the realization that Christmas is quickly approaching, kids become borderline saints and putty in their parent’s hands. Everything they do is motivated by the fact that they think Santa will put them on the nice list.

I remember going to see Santa Claus at the mall when I was younger and it seemed like he always asked, “Have you been a good boy this year? Have you been listening to your parents?”
If parents were smart they’d slip the Santa a twenty to ask a series of questions.
“Are you being nice to your sisters, cleaning your bedroom, doing your homework, letting your parents sleep in?”
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December 3, 2009

Confession: People Yahoo weird stuff

This week Yahoo released its list of the top ten things people used their search engine to find out more about, this year. The results lead me to believe the two main types of people using the Yahoo search engine are men, and teenie booper girls. Here’s how this year’s numbers broke down.

1. Michael Jackson took the number one spot, proving once again that the best thing an artist can do to improve their image and boost album sales is to simply die.

2. The Twilight Saga came at number two, which really makes me wonder if I’m missing out on something great. I’ve heard the books are as addictive as crack, but that still doesn’t mean they’re worth reading. After all, how good can crack be for you, really? I know I freak out when I meet anyone that hasn’t read the Harry Potter series, but something tells me Twilight cannot possibly live up to its hype. And besides, didn’t HBO make this same plot into a TV show?

3. WWE took the three-spot. What can I say? Wrestling is super entertaining and will always have a place in the heart of every man living in the good U.S. of A. The WWE is a total guilty pleasure of mine, but not as much as when it was the WWF. I watch wrestling, maybe, a few times a year, when I happen to catch it, but it always grabs my full attention. I grew up a Hulk-a-manic and was part of the Warrior-nation; it’s in my blood. And for my money, there are no better shit-talkers on the planet than professional wrestlers. Face it; professional wrestling is hands down the longest running, and best, soap opera ever!

4. Megan Fox… When I was telling my wife about this top ten the other night at dinner, a woman sitting next to us asked, “Are you sure it wasn’t ‘Megan Fox naked?’” I’m pretty sure it was, but Yahoo would probably like to pretend that Internet is used for something besides porn and skin shots of celebrities.

5. Moving down the list all the way from last year’s number one spot… Britney Spears. Sorry Britney, it looks like people are much more interested in you loosing your shit, than they are with the shitty music you make.

6. Naruto was number six, and since Yahoo’s search engine sucks, I Googled it find out more. Apparently Naruto is a manga comic. If you don’t know what manga comics are, don’t worry. you’re not alone. According to Wikipedia, magna comics include a broad range of subjects: action-adventure, romance, sports and games, historical drama, comedy, science fiction and fantasy, mystery, horror, sexuality, and business and commerce, among others. Like most things American’s couldn’t care less about, manga comics are big in Japan.

7. American Idol rolls in at number seven. Maybe I’m just imagining it, but didn’t it come out that the fix was in on this show? The only redeeming quality about this show is that Ellen is now, or is going to be, a judge on the show. Ellen is fabulous, teen-aged-singers that get record contracts from this show and then put out shitty music, are not.

8. Kim Kardashian takes the number eight spot, proving once again, it doesn’t matter that no one knows who you are before your sex tape “accidentally” gets leaked on the Internet, afterwards you’ll be a celebrity. But seriously, did anyone know who they hell she was before she make a sex tape with Moesha’s brother?

9. Of course NASCAR was going to make the top ten. I’d love to make a joke about all of the ignorant rednecks that watch the sport, but one of the most intelligent people I know is a die-hard NASCAR fan. But I think he’s the exception to the rule. It’s safe to say that 99.9% of NASCAR fans think Sarah Palin is a political genius with great values and that global warming is a myth. NASCAR is also one of the fastest growing sports in the U.S.- be afraid, be very afraid.

10. Rounding out the top ten is Runescape, a video game. Never heard of it, but then again I’m not an avid gamer. This game does sound pretty cool though. I wonder if you can get it for Atari?

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December 3, 2009

Confession: Chuck Klosterman reads my blog

Chuck Klosterman reads my blog! Or on-line collections of essays as I like to think of it. I don’t know this for sure, but today I got a hit from someone who followed my link from Facebook; and it just happens to be the same day Chuck Klosterman accepted my Facebook invitation to be friends. In related news, Chuck Klosterman and I are now friends.

I’m now sitting around daydreaming about Chuck Klosterman reading my essays. I wonder if he laughed at anything. I hope he at least cracked a smile. I’m sure he did, and at this moment he’s probably back on Facebook doing one of two things… writing me a message, or poking me. There is a possibility I’ll be able to go home today and tell my wifey, “Honey, today I got poked by Chuck Klosterman.” She’d be so happy for me.

If you haven’t noticed, I love Chuck Klosterman. Klosterman is the David Sedaris for people who are obsessed with music and pop culture. My sister-in-law recently asked, “Is he that one guy that makes all those pop-culture references I don’t get?”

Before reading Chuck Klosterman I didn’t realize that anyone had the same type of thoughts as I do. I was especially excited to find out that someone let him write several books about such thoughts. For years I thought I was the only one that spent my spare time writing at great lengths over who would’ve been more likely to prevent Sept. 11, the Delta Force, or John Cutter from Passenger 57. Or which celebrities would make up an all-star team to win the office Dead Pool. I believe Klosterman is the type of guy that I could have a beer with and seriously discuss the topic of whether Tupac would have an iPhone or a Blackberry Curve, if he were alive today.

I look forward to talking with him about many important issues on the Facebook chat option, during our new Facebook-friendship, but for now… I’m just really honored to find out that Chuck Klosterman reads, or may have read, my blog.

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November 18, 2009

Confession: I hate your blog

I hate blogs, including this one. There, I said it. I can admit it, blogs suck, they are evil creatures. Without blogs, it’s fair to say the world would be a much better place.

I remember when I first heard about blogs, I thought they would be a great idea. But like most things, they are only enjoyable when experienced in moderation. Nowadays everyone has a blog. Most likely even your Mom has a blog.

There are blogs about food, music, movies, bikes, stuff white people like, pop-culture, design, politics… Then there are blogs that deal with all of the above and more. There are even blogs about blogs. It’s too much, there are too many, the Internet is too flooded with them. I’ve even seen blogs about religion. If the post I read was true, and there is a God… Please help, please eliminate all of the blogs in the world, including this one. Thanks God.

Sarah Palin’s fame is even credited to a blog. Before some small political blog raved about her, she was widely unknown; man I miss those days. But now, thanks to some stupid blog, her face and annoying smug little smile is everywhere for everyone to see. And what do we know about the blogger who first praised this woman? Well of course we know he’s an idiot, because after all, he praised Sarah Palin… But besides that, we don’t know anything about him. Why does his opinion even matter? For all we know he could worship Captain Kirk, his diet could consist solely of Cheetos and Reb Bull and he could be planning to marry his sister when he grows up.

That’s my point; blogs would maybe be useful or entertaining if they were used by important people to say intelligent or funny things. Now I know what you’re thinking, ‘Who determines who is intelligent or funny enough to get a blog?” I don’t know the answer to that question, me maybe? But I know this; someone has to do something. They used to do this back in the good old-fashioned days when people still read newspapers. The people who made these decisions were called editors and the people they chose to push their views, humor and or opinions onto you were called columnists, and it was awesome.

Now, as I’ve said before, columnists are dead, and the only thing that’s left in their place are bloggers and tweeters (is tweeter what you call a person who uses Twitter?). If you have a blog, most likely I’ve read it to kill time at work, and most likely I think less of you for having it; just like my self-esteem goes down several points every time I click the publish button on this blog.

At times I wish I lived in China where they restricted things like Facebook, people’s blogs and other information. It must be nice to not be so overwhelmed with all this bullshit. I understand that you might think I’m crazy for feeling this way and I might have offended you, but I don’t really care. What are you going to do, blog about it?

No bloggers where injured in this blog post.

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November 10, 2009

Confession: I ate cow

Yesterday, after ten years of eating what most of my friends referred to as twigs and bark, I finally ate what they consider to be “real food.” After a decade of having a cow-free mouth, I chewed and swallowed a 1/2-pound of cow at happy hour.

It was an interesting experience. I didn’t feel any guilt about it at the time; after all, killing an animal was never the reason I gave up eating meat in the first place. I became a vegetarian after learning about all of the hormones that go into today’s meat. But the piece of a cow that I ate belonged to a cow who was “hormone-free and grass feed.”

It’s pretty crazy to me that those things even need to be on a menu. Cow’s digestive systems aren’t meant to eat anything but grass, but something tells me the people who don’t know this, or care to know this, are fine to eat any type of cow, even the mad ones which feed on bits of other cows and newspapers and all sorts of things. And I’m sure they don’t care that the typical cow ingests more pharmaceuticals than Janis Joplin did in her lifetime.

After I starter to think about it, I started replaying vegetarian-propaganda bumper stickers over and over in my head- meat is murder. And then I started to feel badly about it.

But I’d like to the think the piece of cow that I ate came from a really depressed cow; one that kept itself in really great shape, but deep down was really just unhappy with life and was going to commit suicide any day now. I’d also like to think that if the cow knew how to read and write, it would’ve written a suicide note that stated, “When I’m gone, please serve me up on an onion bun with garlic lemon aioli, pepper bacon, lettuce, onion, tomato, and a choice of Rogue blue cheese or Tillamook white cheddar, ketchup and mustard, with an ice-cold IPA.”

Then I read the menu a bit closer and saw the piece of cow I ate came from a place in Oregon called Strawberry Mountain. I started to think about it, and the more I thought about it, the more I thought of how wonderful Strawberry Mountain sounded. In fact, Strawberry Mountain sounds like the nicest, happiest place on earth. Who could be depressed there? Surely not a cow who sat around all day in the sun eating grass; one who had no care in the world until its life was cut tragically short and then served up to me on an onion bun with garlic lemon aioli, pepper bacon, lettuce, onion, tomato, and Tillamook white cheddar, ketchup and mustard, with an ice-cold IPA. Damn it! Now I feel like an asshole. I should’ve never eaten that bit of cow!

But what’s done is done, and now I feel like I owe it to that cow to at least let it spend the rest of eternity with those it knew and loved. If you’ll excuse me, I’m off to happy hour; I’ve got a reunion to attend to.

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November 3, 2009

Confession: technology is crazy, stupid!

A few months back, my wife bought me an iPhone; I’m pretty sure she’s regretted it everyday since. She claims to be looking into support groups that help people who have a problem with their cell phone. I told her I’m not addicted; I’m simply exploring it and learning about all of the thousands of helpful apps. I’m know that somewhere out there is a programmer who is writing an app that will help me convince my wife that not only am I not playing with my iPhone too much, I’m not playing with it enough.

But in all seriousness, the iPhone is pretty amazing and I find myself wondering on a daily basis how I ever lived without one. Something tells me I was simply more resourceful, but I like to pretend like I was barely getting by before this invention.

It seems like ages ago when I would have to leaf through hundreds of thousands of dull-colored yellow pages looking for the number to the local movie theater. Then there was always the dilemma of whether they listed it under “theaters” or “movies.” I never remembered which one it was. Then there was the robotic woman’s voice that would slowly read out each movie, its run time, rating and all of the possible show times. Her voice haunts me to this day. Now I simply have an app that lists all of the movie times in my area, or I use my voice controlled Google search app to find the exact theater I’m looking for.

Technology is amazing, and it has made our lives unbelievably easy, but it does have its down sides. Before my iPhone days, I always carried a mini notebook and pen on my persons to scribble down all of the things I loved or hated about life at that particular moment. Sure I don’t miss forgetting to take the pen out of my pants before washing them, only to have the pen explode in the dryer and have the ink permanently heated into every thread of my clothing; but there is something about writing on actual pieces of paper. Lately I find myself typing all of my random thoughts into the notepad app on my phone, and although it looks like I’m typing on a legal pad, it’s just not the same.

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October 30, 2009

Confession: not everyone loves free rent

I spotted this homeless guy playing guitar the other day for money. According to him, anything helps. Apparently he did’t read the sign just above his bike.

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August 18, 2009

9021-0h my God I should’ve done more…

Thinking back now I should’ve done something, but of course hindsight is always 20-20. There were plenty of signs I should’ve seen, but even when there was no doubt in my mind what was going on I sat back and did nothing.

When he took Kelly to Mexico I was naïve to believe it was just a romantic getaway for two long-lost lovers. I should’ve seen it for what it truly was, a chance for Dylan to score more black tar.

They say heroin is one of the toughest addictions to break, right up there with giving up your Facebook account. The physical toll heroin withdrawal takes on one’s body is no joke. This was a far more serious problem than when Brandon got addicted to gambling back in season three. This was season nine and the stakes had been raised to life-threatening levels. Keep reading →

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June 9, 2009

Confession No. 4: I live in the real world

When I was young my father often spoke of a place he called “The real world.”  It sounded like a horrible place for many reasons: Money apparently did not grow on trees in the real world; shit, of all shapes and sizes, happened on a regular basis; and all of the Chinese people there were planning to eat my lunch.

I know this because my father would tell me nearly ever chance he got, starting in the fourth grade, “You better apply yourself in school or when you get into the real world, the Chinese are going to eat your lunch.”

I was never quite sure why the Chinese wanted to eat my lunch. As far back as I can remember my mother would make me peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on whole grain wheat bread. The bread was similar to soil in the Great Plains states after a long drought. It was so dry, in fact, that by the time lunch came around, the bread would absorb all of the jelly and 95 percent of the peanut butter. What I was left with was a sandwich that required a half-gallon of hormone-ridden milk to get down. Throw in some unsalted tortilla chips, an apple, and there you have it- that was my lunch. Keep reading →

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