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

Change

Hi World. Thanks for the rash. Where is my gun?

I think I might actually have a point to make today . . . bare with me. I am writing this dumb thing today on an electronic computing machine. I am listening to some fucking ROCKING jams on my electronic tape player. I am getting text messages from my parole officer on my super fast electronic cell phone thing. Plus, I watch all of my old Kids Incorporated videos on a miniature electronic movie theater.

So. The other night I was downtown at a party with people who pretend to be my friends. It got late and I needed to make the trek back to Lincoln Park from Wicker Park. Being that I was tired from it all, I decided to forego the traditional February car jack and opted to take a taxi cab. I flag down a cab and get in the car.  Well, I tried to get in the front and sit extra close to the driver on the bench seat just to make things spicy, but he insisted I get in the back, or . . . no ride. I complied. We get all the way back to my my area and I tell him to drop me off at the corner near my hovel. He told me the fare and when I gave him a credit card his head spun around and he went into a fiery temper tantrum. He didn't want to take my card. Here is a summary of the transcript:

Driver: "Eleven twenty five."

Tyler Guy: "OK. Here you go." (hand him PLATINUM Visa Debit Card)

Driver: "No. No. What? No, you got to pay cash."

Tyler Guy: "What? Why?"

Driver: "Cash only."

Tyler Guy: "But there is a credit card machine right there." (I point to the card machine thing in the back seat, convenient for passenger use)

Driver: "Cash only. Cash only. No card."

Tyler Guy: "Well, I don't have cash. You wanna take my card or not."

Driver: "Mucky Blangada Vinceteo a Mucky Flipourin---Ivan Drago." (foreign expletives, lots of finger pointing and wild saliva spitting)

Tyler Guy: "I don't know what you just said, sir. But I don't want any trouble. Stay here and I'll ATM at this 7-11."

Driver: "Yes. Go."

So, I go into the 7-11 and ATM 20 bucks - then I buy a Slim Jim and head to the cashier to pay. As I am completing the transaction with the nice 7-11 man, I decide to get creative with my change. I told the story of what was happening and the man was happy to help.

As I return to the cab, I stand outside and hand the driver a bag of money. $11.25 in this manner.

14 rolls of pennies.

12 quarters.

10 dimes. 

5 nickels.

Driver: "Fuck you you fucking prick fucking boy."

Tyler Guy: "Cool man. Keep the change. Oh wait! It's all change. I'll walk from here."

My Point? It's an electronic world. Get with it or jingle. 

THE END.

Love Always, 

Tyler

Too . . . There . . .

Dear World -

Today I would like to take a moment to discuss two groups of words: the "to's" and the "there's". If that is kind of confusing I will break it down further into teams:

The Bluebirds: to, too and two.

The Irons: there, their and they're.

Now, I am not a scholar. I have not written any dissertations, my favorite book  is Goodnight Moon and I am not good at building things. Having said that, I am somewhat familiar with the laws and regulations regarding grammar and words and things . . . and thought I'd take a moment to delve into a little matter which people seem to get confused more often than not. Folks can't seem to use the correct form of "to" and "there" when writing. I find these words important in our language and deserve more respect. As such, I thought I'd create a guideline for the appropriate ways to use these two teams of words.

Following are correct and in correct ways of using these words.

THE BLUEBIRDS -

To:

Good Way: "I am heading to the east side to get my balls waxed."

Bad Way: "I have been a cutter for to years now."

Too:

Good Way: "That chick has eaten way too many donuts in her day, but I'd still hit it."

Bad Way: "The nice priest at church told me not too say anything about us playing hide the dart."

Two:

Good Way: "Uncle Dan hit mom in the head two times with a broken bottle."

Bad Way: "Anna Nicole took way two many drugs for lunch that day. She dead."

THE IRONS:

There:

Good Way: "I put the gag ball over there."

Bad Way: "Every time I go over to there house, I wake up with a sore fanny."

Their:

Good Way: "At least their trailer has heat."

Bad Way: "I think she went over their to pay her pimp."

They're:

Bad Way: "They're the nicest couple. I hardly noticed his wooden leg and lazy eye."

Good Way: "I think they're is only one good way to steal his kidney."

Please use this source for reference at any point.

GO WORLD!!!

Tyler Britain Kirk I

Baby Encounter

TV: Sober House is no Intervention, but it is another option to make you feel better about yourself.

Moving along. Lets talk for a moment about kids. I love kids. I have four nephews that all share my last name, all look kind of like me and all speak English. They are hilarious, smart, enjoy being on earth and don't have to pay rent. Plus, they really appreciate the greatness that is Whataburger. 

Having said that, I'd like to address one thing in particular that continually makes me somewhat uncomfortable. Ready?  When you're sitting at a table, or on the train, or in line buying your liquor and gorilla glue for the morning and the lady next to you - or in front of you...or to the side of you - is holding onto a cute little tike who, for whatever reason, finds you unbelievably fascinating. Fascinating to the point that the little fella stares holes through you as the puddle of sippy cup infused mucus flowing onto mommy's shoulder grows into a pond. Now, that is not a problem. Kids are curious. The problem really gains momentum and increases from a canter to a gallup when I begin to try to talk and interact with the little titan. I like to talk to them and try to get a giggle from them. FAIL. The whole process usually transpires in 7 stages. Perhaps you can relate. This happened to me this morning.

STAGE 1: Eye Contact. I notice two plate-size eyes beaming in my direction. Quickly, my attention is diverted from pocketing a pack of Top Cigarette paper to the issue at hand. A smile is cracked as I fake a cough and put the tobacco paper in my pocket. Success.

STAGE 2: Facial expressions. Now knowing that the game is well underway, my immediate impulse is not to realize that I am looking at a cute little raisin who has been on earth for less time than my rash. No, instead I believe the best move at this point is to completely ignore the beams being shot at me by the mom and instead, not make any noise but contort my face and dome into various shapes and expressions that the child can only process as being frightening and somewhat disturbing. The big smile, the tongue out, the confused muse, the constipated bellow, etc. At this point in the game, I am losing. 

STAGE 3: Baby talk. Since my impression of a stroke victim has done little to entice the youngster, my next move by instinct is to begin to create words that have no meaning and no place in the English language. All sorts of unknown creations are being uttered at this time, such as "hoooola hi-eeeeeeeeeeeee" and "a boooga, booooga". Now, these noises in conjunction with my expressions that can be best described at what it looks like to squeeze an empty beer can on your forehead, do not bode well for the child. The kid continues to stare with little or no expression. I also like to point at random things.

STAGE 5: Judgement. After all of the previous stages have been thoroughly explored, the baby at this point has little choice but to stare and judge me. It is an uncomfortable exchange for a few moments because at this point I know the baby is thinking what a moron I am and how glad he is that I fall nowhere in his blood line. The mother quickly gets in on the act as she does a slow once-over of me from head to toe, then grimmaces and says something under hear breath. More judging. The she fakes a smile and pretends to check her BlackBerry.

STAGE 6: Small talk. My only move at this point - as the tike continues to judge and stare - is to say something to the mom. Something really funny and witty . . . something like, "I love kids. I'm good with them. Is it yours? Really, fun." FAIL.

STAGE 7: Sedation. As my ego plunges from judgement and failure, my last chance at redemption is to undo the vice grip the child has placed on the Sponge Bob sippy cup and fill it with whiskey. I am now smarter and better.

THE END.

Have a great weekend!

Tyler