OK, I threatened to tell this story to a couple friends of mine on Tuesday night, and they covered their ears and chanted "not listening not listening not listening," so restrained myself. Then I realized, hey, this would make a pretty good blog post, because it ends with a startling twist. They replied that they didn't want to hear about any dog killing, and if I posted it, they would not read my blog until this post dropped off into the archives.

What I'm saying is, consider yourself warned.

My sister used to have this cute little lap dog named Daisy. I liked dogs of all kinds at that point in my life, and I thought Daisy was pretty cool. So when my sister moved to Germany, she left the dog at our house and I had the general responsibility of taking care of her.

I should mention that this occurred at the same time that I acquired the bedroom with the magazine pictures on the ceiling. Since my three sisters used to share that room, it had three beds--a regular bed and a set of bunk beds. I could sleep in any of these beds, but I most often chose the regular bed.

The thing about Daisy was that she liked to chew things. In particular, she liked to get up in the night and chew things. Consequently, I was supposed to tie her to my bed post with a leash at night, so she would just sleep in my bed and not chew up all the furniture.

OK, I think you can tell where this is going. One night I didn't sleep in the regular bed. I slept in the top bunk bed. And, stupidly stupidly stupidly, I clipped the leash on Daisy's collar and put the loop over the bedpost, as usual. Ugh. In the middle of the night, she leapt off the bed, and, since this was the top bunk, instead of landing safely on the floor as she normally did she was hung and instantly killed.

All of this was very traumatic. But. I promised a twist and here it is.

My sister was heartbroken, but eventually she moved into an apartment in Germany that allowed pets, and she got another dog, a huge male golden retriever named Reuben. When she moved back to the US, Reuben came with. This dog was in our house for probably 20 minutes before I started wrestling around with him. He seemed to be having fun, but suddenly he just snapped and completely mauled me. One of his teeth went halfway through my left hand, and he ripped a decent gash all the way around my right forearm. For some time, I had bandages on my arms and hands, and I looked like I'd attempted suicide.

So, while I still feel guilty for making a mistake that cost the life of one of my sister's dogs, I sometimes look down at the scars left by her other dog, and I feel like I've paid my dues.
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Posted by Barrett at 10:22 AM | Permalink

I've decided to start keeping track of my bowling scores. What better way than to do it publicly?

Tonight's scores:

1. 125
2. 124
3. 130
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Posted by Barrett at 12:40 AM | Permalink

When my sisters were teenagers, they had pretty bizarre idea for decorating their room. One afternoon, when I was about five or six and our parents were out of the house, they clipped hundreds of pictures out of magazines and glued them to their ceiling. They completely covered the ceiling with overlapping photos taken from magazines such as Cosmopolitan and Glamour. Our parents were furious, but what could they do?

A few years later, my sisters moved out and I inherited the room. I hated that ceiling, but my parents were old and not really motivated to remodel. So I lived with it for years. I didn't need magazines of naked women -- they were all over my ceiling. But by then they were out-of-style women with feathered hair and blue eye shadow. Friends would come over to visit and want to know why I had ads for Loreal and Maybelline all over my ceiling. I'd be mortified.

At night I would lay there forced to look at the pictures and, worse yet, read the words in the ads. "If my man can't wear English Leather, he wears nothing at all." When there are words in front of your face, you have to read them. It becomes a sort of OCD. "If I don't read the English Leather slogan nine times before I fall asleep, I do not sleep at all."

Once, I tried to clip my own pictures from magazines and glue them over the old ones. But it was an insane task. I didn't have many magazines except for Mad and Discover. And it wasn't worth the effort to cut out and paste up hundreds of pictures of Alfred E. Neuman and the Space Shuttle. I did about 1/8 of the ceiling before I gave up.

Eventually, when I got a bit older, I acquired some sheets of chip-board and screwed them to the ceiling to cover the magazine photos. This lead to even more OCD behavior, but it was much more pleasant. Every night before falling asleep, I'd look at the various patterns in the chip-board and see all kinds of images and scenes. It was kind of the white-trash equivilant of looking at constellations. "There's the guy with the huge eyes. There's the donkey. There's the Winnebago. There's the couple humping. There's Gene Simmons."

These days my bedroom ceiling has lots of glitter embedded into the textured paint. Once again, this was not my decision, and when we first moved here I thought it to be incredibly tacky. But now I sort of like it. The light from the street makes the glitter look kind of orange, like all the stars and planets have turned into Mars. It looks best in candlelight. When I look at it each night, I don't have any OCD routines. I just look.
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Posted by Barrett at 10:22 AM | Permalink

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Posted by Barrett at 9:02 PM | Permalink

I don't need any additional confusion in the morning; I'm confused enough in general. But this morning, something happened that just kicked all of my groggy brain cells into overdrive, attempting to answer the question, "What the fuck?"

So I'm in the shower. And I'm naked because that's how I like to clean myself -- I like the whole body to get clean, not just the parts that show. Anyway, I'm in the shower, naked, and suddenly I head a *clink*. I look down, and sure enough, there's a shiny nickel on the floor.

Where the HELL did this nickel come from?

No. I don't remember putting any spare change up my ass. And I'm 95% certain that no one did it for me, either. So ... what the fuck?

After about ten minutes of head scratching, I woke up enough to realize that I must have slept on the nickel, and it stuck to my skin somewhere, only to fall off at the most confusing time possible.

My brain is fried. Guess I won't be able to work on that Mensa application until later this afternoon.

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Posted by Barrett at 10:45 AM | Permalink

It's the most beautiful of spring days, a Friday no less, and guess who got to cut out early? Still guessing? Huh? ME, that's who.

Which begs the question: If it is the most beautiful of spring days, and I can do whatever I want, why am I indoors at the computer? Hmmm... (strokes translucent, pasty-skinned chin with permanently clawed hand)
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Posted by Barrett at 3:52 PM | Permalink

I am not ashamed to admit that I enjoy sci-fi and young adult fiction. Not so long ago, I read a book called Feed by MT Anderson. This story takes place in the not-too-distant future, and is about a device called the Feed, which is a networked computer implanted in human brains.

People use the Feed for a lot of things -- school, work, entertainment, etc. -- but most of all, they use it for shopping. Talking to your friends about cars? The Feed will bombard your very brain with ads for cars, and help you find the best deal. Like those pants that guy is wearing? The Feed will automatically sense your feelings and tell you how much they cost and how you can order them. The Feed transforms the world into living hypertext.

My point is that in today's world, I think Gmail is the closest thing we have to the Feed. Gmail is pretty cool. It has 500 times the storage capacity of Hotmail. It is really easy to organize, and pretty innovative, too. But how can they afford to give you a whole gigabyte worth of storage? Here's how.

Ads alongside your e-mails are targeted to you based on the content of your e-mail. You read that correctly. If you and your friends are discussing going out for pizza, you will, in theory, see pizza ads. The people at Google make a big deal about your privacy, insisting that no humans will ever read your e-mail, and that they will not give any of your personal information to advertisers.

But still.

This is really freaky, and I don't know how I feel about it. On one hand, who cares? It's sort of sophomoric to whine about "Big Brother" etc., as if we don't know that he exists. I for one am not going to cut up my credit cards and move to the Northwest Territories. But still.

But still.

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Posted by Barrett at 11:44 AM | Permalink

For quite a while now, I've been wondering if all the rabbits in the yard are going to devour the garden.

But today, I'm wondering what's been devouring the rabbits.

I think it's a fox, because our fence would keep out dogs, and a cat probably wouldn't do this. [Not for the squeamish.]

* * *

On a completely unrelated note, I'm now signed up for the much-anticipated beta version of Gmail. Drop me a line: bchase (at) gmail (dot) com.

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Posted by Barrett at 1:09 PM | Permalink

Sometimes, I go into a shell. Even though I think I make a decent extrovert, extroversion does not come naturally to me, so on days like today, I often need to recharge. I crave certain things intensely: showers, sleep, solitary bike rides, tea, books.

At times like this, I love my job. First of all, it doesn't start until noon. That leaves all morning for blogging, coffee drinking, reading, and listening to music. When I finally go to work, there is not much interaction with other people. I sit at my terminal, typing away and listening to my iPod. Sometimes I bring my Walkman and listen to books on tape or NPR. Once you learn how to do my job, you don't have to think much about it, and so it allows time for contemplation. Most of the good ideas I have had originated while I was at work.

The bummer part of my job is that I almost always work on Saturdays. This makes it a little difficult to go out of town, or to do fun Saturday activities like see movies at the library, or take part in the upcoming PDD Field Trip to Karpeles Manuscript Museum. However, I do get one weekday off, and this makes for even better recharging time.

On my weekday off, I do exactly as I please all day long. A lot of times, I get up a lot earlier on those days, because that way there's more day to enjoy. I don't look at the clock too much; I don't worry about being anywhere at a certain time. Sometimes I cook something healthy and delicious.

A year ago I worked two jobs, and had almost no time for recharging. Commuting between jobs, I'd see people leisurely walking down the street, or eating solitary lunches on benches, and it was enough to cause me to ache.

This spring, I am thankful for what I have.
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Posted by Barrett at 11:02 AM | Permalink

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Posted by Barrett at 4:53 PM | Permalink

When I was about 12, I had a sort of problem with my underwear. The problem was, often the waistband would enjoy displaying itself to my classmates as I leaned forward to diligently work on my math assignment. And so, I was often treated to the whispered phrase, "Blue stripe today. Must be Wednesday." Geek that I was, it never occurred to me that my clothes were cheap and ill-fitting. I was convinced that it had something to do with my own ass.

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Posted by Barrett at 10:03 AM | Permalink

These are all red because they are colored with my blood. I put my finger over the flash bulb.

The Geek Prom Starfire Lounge rocked! Edgewood was the total shit. He should be the spaz-dance host, not me.

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Posted by Barrett at 1:15 AM | Permalink

So in honor of Geek Week, and because it was just released on DVD, we've been having a Freaks and Geeks marathon over at our place. If you were my downstairs neighbor, you'd be able to set your clock by the sounds of "Bad Reputation" by Joan Jett.

I've come to the realization that my obsession with marathons has a lot to do with their mood-altering abilities. A good marathon is a lot like a bender, especially at the beginning. Think about it. When you're in the midst of the marathon, you know exactly what your mood is going to be like. Is life getting you down? Start up the marathon.

It's escape at its best.

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Posted by Barrett at 11:50 AM | Permalink

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Posted by Barrett at 11:51 PM | Permalink

In the summer between my sophomore and junior years of college, I was almost completly unemployed. I made a few dollars here and there temping and doing odd jobs, but for the most part, I did nothing. I was poor, but I was rich in free time.

Every day, I'd wake up and eat a mixing bowl full of Honey Nut Cheerios out on the porch. It seemed to rain every night, so there was always a pleasant scent of rain in the air every morning. After I finished eating, I'd just sit there for awhile and do nothing.

After that, I'd usually go for a walk in the woods. I'd bring a small daypack with water, some fruit, a book and a notebook. Maybe I'd make use of these things or maybe not. I had about four or five different routes that I'd take, and all of these routes had places to stop and rocks to sit on.

When I returned, I would usually go to my room where I'd play loud music and throw darts really hard. The music was often Pink Floyd's "The Division Bell" or The Breeders' "Last Splash." The darts were the real kind--the sharp kind--and for some reason I'd always throw them hard enough to pierce through the dartboard and into the wall behind it.

The rest of the day I'd usually spend sitting in a lawn chair and reading.

In the evening, I got together with Ca-chee, and we spent our time watching movies, necking, playing board games, and sleeping. Once we played a checkers tournament that lasted for weeks--we kept track of our wins and losses in a little notebook. One of my favorite memories from that time was when we fell asleep watching a rain delay on ESPN.

My point here is this: A decade later, I still waste a lot of time. It is my nature. But the difference is, back then it felt like these things were good for me, like I needed to do them. Now, for the most part, I don't feel that way. Sure, I spend my mornings drinking coffee and reading blogs, and that is good for me. But for the most part, I feel like wasting my time also wastes my energy. I feel like my mind is focused on the wrong things. I feel like I procrastinate things that I actually want to do.

I want to do these things. I want to organize all of my Occam's Razor comics and make a series of about 10 zines containing every comic I ever drew. I want to create a new comic, too, perhaps for print, perhaps just for the web. I want to start shooting more pictures and digital video, and make short, stupid web movies. I want to find weird places in the city and investigate them. I want to ride my bike and work in my garden. Most of all, I want to waste time in such a way that, 10 years from now, I will remember how I used to waste time.

It's a tall order.
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Posted by Barrett at 11:12 AM | Permalink

I really don't know why this is, or what it means, but I just remembered the first time I realized that the Easter Bunny is not a real bunny. Immediately, I approached my family and announced my discovery. It went something like this.

ME: The Easter Bunny isn't a real bunny.
THEM: Oh?
ME: No. A real bunny couldn't carry baskets. It's a person.
THEM: A person?
ME: Yeah. He's just a little kid dressed as a bunny. A black kid.

I vividly remember my conception of the Easter Bunny, and I can still visualize it. Black kid, maybe 9 years old, dressed in a pink bunny suit. I don't know where I got this idea; I suppose I saw a picture of some kid dressed up for Easter somewhere and made an assumption. All I can say is I'm really lucky I didn't turn out to be a furry or something.

Of course, we all know the real Easter Bunny looks like this.
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Posted by Barrett at 11:57 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

From the New York Press' "50 Most Loathsome New Yorkers"

#42
i-Snobs

"THE BLINDING WHITE cords flowing out of my sublimely waxed ears say it all: I'm in no mood for talking, and my income bracket makes cumbersome CDs so unnecessary, so Second Wave. With thousands of songs from my iPod at my polished fingertips, I can now walk through life effortlessly, angelically, shielded by the anodized aluminum of my futuristic listening device. I can strut with confidence and disinterest past those in my chosen path. I'm cut off from your dirty world by my ear buds and their enhanced sound and noise-suppression features. I'm a creature of advertising, a walking cliche with 25-minute skip protection and Volkswagen dreams. Shit, my profile even resembles the faceless, platonic form in the billboard."
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Posted by Barrett at 11:18 AM | Permalink

Only 10 days left until Geek Prom. I really want to pick out my own clothes this year, instead of having my mom pick them out for me.
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Posted by Barrett at 10:44 AM | Permalink

It is now cold enough outside to store beer on the porch, but not so cold that the beer freezes and explodes. Yes, it's a brief window of opportunity, so you have to take advantage of it. Nothing beats the deliciously white-trash feeling of stepping outdoors in your boxers to pop a cold one. A very, very cold one.

Incidentally, if any underage drinkers are thinking about climbing my steps and making off with my Hamm's, keep in mind that I have a keen ear, a coffee can full of taconite pellets, and a wrist-rocket.
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Posted by Barrett at 11:01 AM | Permalink

Every time I attempt to logon to Hotmail today, I get a message saying "The server is too busy."

Too busy. Hotmail. Microsoft.

Listen, Microsoft's servers are made of millions of Pentium 20 processors grafted into the reanimated chunks of JFK's brain. There is no effing way they could be "too busy."

Someone's out to get me. Obviously, this is all a conspiracy to keep me from receiving important penile-enlargement information.

* * *

(Note to those studying the fine art of smart-aleck humor: notice how I made the final lame joke into an almost-funny joke by changing the expected word, "penis," into the more technical-sounding word, "penile." This kind of decision making is, unfortunately, my #1 talent.)
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Posted by Barrett at 2:16 PM | Permalink

Everybody knows that the official theme song to Fall Back is "Back in Time" by Huey Lewis & the News. But I'm trying to find a suitable theme for turning the clocks forward. At first I thought it was "The Future" by Leonard Cohen, but it really should be more upbeat.

Hmmm ... songwriters aren't really all that optimistic are they?
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Posted by Barrett at 12:08 PM | Permalink

I think there needs to be a DVD featuring all the famous Letterman meltdowns. I'm trying to remember them all:

- Harvey Pekar
- Crispin Glover
- Farah Fawcett
- Madonna
- Cher
- Drew Barrymore
- The World's Fastest Hypnotist
- Brother Theodore

I just know that there are so many more. Does anyone remember?
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Posted by Barrett at 7:57 PM | Permalink