Sleep

I slept like a lump of plop last night. I got home from the gym all excited and aroused to watch a new episode of Intervention about a lady who had a problem with hitting herself and telling herself she was "so stupid and can't do anything right" and banging her head with a hairbrush. But after I ate dinner and got focused and ready for the Intervention to go down, I fell asleep hard, at like 7. When I woke up it was almost 10 and the self-brutality and yelling had ended. I was really looking forward to it. I was really groggy and disoriented and confused. After I finally dunked my head in a trough and got it together it was like 10:15. 

And then . . . WIDE AWAKE. It is funny the things you do when you can't sleep. For some reason it seems logical to check the fridge every 6 minutes to make sure you didn't miss anything behind the mustard and repeatedly look into the cupboard to see if the shelf had sprouted a fresh bag of Chex-Mix. Of course, in between all of these round trips to the kitchen the other rational thing to do would be to surf through the channels over and over and over and over and over and over . . . then go back and look in fridge. And just to complete the cycle, also peep into the freezer just to make sure that empty box of fudge pops is still there, cold and barren.

THEN . . . just lay there for hours and hours and hours pretending to sleep. Somewhere in this routine it is also recommended to grab your cell phone and skim through names to see who to text at 2, 3, 4am. Nobody. But it is a good plan to check every 6 minutes or so. Not much action on the Facebook during the wee hours, except for the handful of people who live overseas, so around this time is when I get out the matches and start burning things. Then I trim my toenails, followed by a trip to check on the empty box of fudge pops. Still there. 

THEN . . . Little House on the Prairie. Last night Mr. Edwards had a pet Orangutan, Blanche, who was a sweet and lovable animal who all the kids in town loved. But of course, all was ruined when that old hag Mrs. Olsen got a stick up her ass and didn't want Blanche around because she and everyone else think Nelly is a dumb whore. Blanche was taken to the zoo in Sleepy Eye.

THE VERY BEST PART OF THIS ROUTINE is when you finally fall into a deep slumber at like 6:21 and have to wake up like an hour later. It makes starting the day fun and refreshed, ready to tackle the world and kick off the day with a smile and swift kick to the nuts.

YAY!!!!!

Tyler

Tanning

To World:

I got an email the other day that went something like this:

To Tyler: Your blog is lame. Stop wasting peoples time. You're not funny.

To Angry Reader: I understand, and you're right. Seriously. This dumb blog is more of an outlet to get my thoughts rolling before I start concepting and writing for my real job, which produces even stinkier plop. But in an effort to curb your anger, I encourage you to no longer click this link, www.tylersouthouse.blogspot.com, and to also stop rubbing my knee under the table. I've also taken the liberty of removing the "T" and "Y" keys from your keyboard. No more garbage for you!   Done and done.

 - - - -

I was actually stoked to get that . . . it is proof that a set of eyes that do not belong to me actually have looked at this pile of shit I call a blog.

Moving along. I was reading the Austin American Statesman this morning on the internets, and as I was skimming the headlines, something caught my eye: "Bill: Teens would need note for tanning bed. Texans under 18 would not be allowed to use tanning beds unless they have a doctors permission and a parent present." www.statesman.com.

I think this is a great idea. Too often I see people rockin' that nuclear shade of orange in the dead of winter. It always makes me think of orange jello that been sitting in the fridge and jiggles slightly when you open the door to the fridge . . . and makes me wonder what kind of confused lava dance ritual that person's skins cells are doing under the first layer of epidermis after being fried inside a florescent coffin. Couple that with blinding blonde hair from from a cardboard box of bleach and you've got the makings for gold. GOLD Jerry, gold. And skin cancer. Add in some dark roots and you've got the makings for something very special. I suppose it is worse here in Chicago where the opportunity for catching rays is significantly less than in my beloved Austin . . . but tanning is not limited to a single place. I think 18 is a good idea. I frown when I see a girl get on the train using her Chicago Public Schools bus pass and she looks like a cross between a nectarine and an old saddle. Wait until you're 18 and then you can go lie under the heatlamp for as long as you like. I knew a girl in high school who, sadly, was referred to as "Nug" . . . a nickname for a nickname, meaning "Chicken McNugget", because she was only 17 an already a leathery mess. I saw the new Indian Jones last year and his bullwhip reminded me of her.

So, I support this idea. In addition to this bill, I also think that anyone with tribal art or frosted tips should also have to go through an intense screening process before being allowed to procreate. Same goes for every "Rock of Love Bus" participant. 

I take that back. That bus should just be driven into an erupting volcano at high speed with a full tank of gas.

Happy Saint Patricks Day!!!!

Tyler

Dream

Dear Diary,

I understand the economy is in about as good shape as Anna Nicole and the Crocodile Hunter . . . and that I shouldn't have such a dislike for the HUMMERS and meatheads of the world, but my sleep pattern has been a bit off this week. Am I eating too much salt? I'm not really understanding my dreams lately. So far this week I had a dream that I was riding a snowmobile on a beach (WTF #1) and then I rode it up a sand dune and and met my 5th grade teacher, Mrs. Nance, atop the hill for a picnic (WTF #2). Then, we went to Wal-Mart and bought Dallas Cowboys jerseys (WTF #3). Right when we were at the cash register, I woke up in a heavy sweat - screaming and going bananas like the episode of Little House where Mary goes blind. Then, last night in the midst of my slumber I had a dream that I was being chased around the neighborhood by a Cop on a riding mower (WTF #4). I woke up from that dream, went back to sleep and had another dream where I was driving a Zamboni on a frozen lake and ran out of gas (WTF #5). I was rescued by a dog sled. And who was driving? The Cop from the riding mower (WTF #6). 

The only thing that can make me feel better is this: http://dallas.craigslist.org/dal/cto/106709452.html.

I'm not getting it, diary. What does all this mean? I'll cut down on the salt and am seeing a specialist about my fear of the olive loaf, but aside from all this I don't know what else to do. Is this pattern going to continue? I'll admit, driving the Zamboni was fun. But I didn't care for the chafing I got as a result of playing in the sand. 

Throw an 8 iron and a quart of 10W-30 into the dream sequence and we'll talk.

And where are my jumper cables? I already checked that old leather doctors bag . . . did Velvet take them home?? I need them for game night tonight.

Until next time.

Tyler

Hair

To You -

ATTENTION: If you are a subscriber to HBO, I highly urge you to watch a new program called 'Eastbound & Down'. A washed-up baseball player. Mullets. Booze. Drugs. Lying. Cheating. Jet Skis. Broncos. Stealing. Lakes. Bars. Strippers. Fighting. Cussing, lots and lots of cussing. Violence. Destruction. Sports. Steroids. And REDNECKS! This show has all of the trimmings for something very special, like a delicious Thanksgiving dinner where Uncle Dan gets drunk and lights the couch on fire. Tune in. The Sopranos is over.

Hi. How are you? Good. So, yesterday something happened that got me thinking. And like all of these really dumb blog things, this is equally, if not more important. I had just got done swimming at the gym and when I got out of the pool I felt something intertwined within the fingers of my left hand. It was a hair. A 4-inch random hair that I had apparently picked up when I was looking for spare change in the pool. Just a hair. Nothing else. Not a tampon or a syringe. Just a hair. And since I had been in a pool one can only assume it was a clean hair . . . what with the chlorine and what not. Well as I felt it on my hand and then noticed it, I went into a bit of a wild panic in order to get rid of it. Like when a moth if flying around your head. A random hair can sometimes be like a cobweb . . . you know it is there and pull furiously to get it off, but you can still feel it. Finally I got it off. And as my heartbeat began to slow and after triple checking for more stragglers, I sat down in the sauna and poured a whiskey. Breathe . . .

You see, I hate hairs. Wait. Let me correct that, I hate random hairs. I really do. I have a fear of them. The random hair sits right up there with spiders and ear wax. But it is just hair . . . which when you think about it, is very odd. It is not a dirty diaper or an old pair of old, stinky UGG boots. It is just a hair. I have lots of hair. Every second Monday when I take a shower and shampoo my hair, I don't find myself going crazy. When I go to get a haircut and walk into the mecca of random hairs, I do not swallow a bottle of Advil and chase it with the blue liquid that the combs are sitting in in order to numb the pain. When I see a hairbrush - flush with a family of dead hairs tangled in a sea of dandruff and lice - I don't reach for a razor blade. It is just a hair. Gross, sure. But why the freakout? It doesn't make sense. One would think if a single random hair would make me freak, a million would make for a complete meltdown. But it doesn't. I once got intimate with a girl. As we were making out in the Whataburger Drive Thru, I ran my fingers through her burlap hair. Then the car honked behind us and we had to move up and my Snow CD skipped. But, when I was there with a fistful of hair and in my hand and happiness in my pants, I didn't go crazy. No, I didn't. It felt nice. I didn't go bananas. And I have no fear of petting a dog or of dental floss. 

The elusive, stray hair. The one that got away. A mystery.

I don't like poop. So naturally if you add a bunch more and throw me into the bowels of an outhouse, into the doo-doo of doo-doo, I'd freak. More plop = more freak. That makes sense.

More hair = less freak. Weird-O-Rama.

Goodbye.

Tyler