Archive for January, 2013

At some point in the beginning of January Janice at Your Daily Dose said she was going to forego making New Year’s Resolution and instead making monthly resolutions. Jumping at the chance to succeed and rub this success in her face, I agreed to participate. This time, jumping too fast into choosing my resolution, I decided my monthly resolution would be to make a new friend. There was some debate in my head as to what I should make my resolution and this seemed like the best one for the entire world and the least selfish because hey, being friends with me is a gift in itself, right?

Since I couldn’t do this all on my own I enlisted the help of a friend I had not seen in over 3 years. He was a stand-up comedian friend of mine who I had kept in touch with over the years. We’d fill each other in on how our lives were going. Usually it went “Are you happy?” “No. How about you?” “No.” And then we remembered why we became friends in the first place.


(Pretty much us)

We agreed to meet up one night at the place we used to go drinking at after shows or during shows when we were supposed to be outside bugging people in Times Square to buy tickets to see a subpar comedy show. This was a place we had a lot of memories at. One time he ordered quesadillas and they never came after an hour even though the waitress kept saying they were almost ready. This was the same place where a group of 10 drunk guys asked me which waitress I would rather sleep with and in a very philosophical way I broke down how I would sleep with the bustier one but I would marry the thinner more friendly one. They seemed amazed that someone could think so logically about life.

On my way to the bar/restaurant I had hoped to maybe make a friend. I had purposefully given myself some bed head without using any gel so I looked pretty cool. There was a girl on the train with a goofy hat who I think wanted me to talk to her because she sat down near me. If not for the giant red pimple on her chin and the possibility of her being 17 I would have.

When I actually got into New York I had thought maybe I could make a friend walking through Times Square. I had never actually made a friend this way before but I have had great conversations there with strangers. I was at around 47th street when a cute girl leaned in to me.

“Can I ride your face?” she said. Well, no. That’s what I heard. I asked her to repeat it. She tried again and said, “Do you know where the H&M is?” I pondered about it. I had no clue but I’ve learned in New York City you want to pretend like you know your way around. I tried getting more information out of her like if she knew anything it was near. She had no idea. I gave her half-assed directions and she thanked me. I apologized because I hadn’t been to New York in quite some time. Neither had she. I asked where she was from. She was from Edison, New Jersey the town I lived in the first year of my life. We began to talk more and she knew the street I lived on and her dad was actually from the town I live in now. It was weird. It was magical. It was destiny.


(Could it be? Had I made a friend for life?)

“Okay well thanks then. Have a good night.” she said before we even got started on our life together. She was with an even more awkward friend. They continued on in search of their store and I didn’t look back. It wasn’t meant to be. Plus she blinked too much.

I arrived at the bar/restaurant and found my friend outside. I snuck up and smacked him in the head. He told me I 1) looked taller 2) had a less girly/teenager voice 3) seemed more mature. The first thing I did was smack him in the head. How immature did I used to be?


(How I used to be. I’m the pirate in the middle)

We went inside and hopped upstairs where things were less frantic. We sat down and immediately began to check out the room and any potential female suitors. There wasn’t much so we caught up on old times. We whined to each other about other comedians we hate and how unfunny so many of them are. I swear we’d be banned from ever telling a joke ever again if some people heard the honest things we were saying.

Our food arrived, we ate, and I tried figuring out which waitress I should try to befriend. There was the heavyset one who was taller than me. Okay, no way. She could beat me up. Then there was the blonde one who had been doing most of the work for us. She was cute and friendly but had something wrong with her face. Not on my friend’s list missy! Finally there was a small brunette who pretended I didn’t exist except for when my friend got up to use the bathroom. She approached me and said “Hey I didn’t want to do this in front of your friend but can I ride your face?” Actually that’s what I heard. What she really said was “Are you guys doing alright?” So maybe I could look into this deeper and she was offering to sit on my face. I’m not sure. I don’t understand many social cues.

Not long after we left. My buddy was nice enough to walk me 20 blocks down only to find out the station was closed. I walked to two more stations to try finding the train home before finally finding one that was open. I even tried to have a conversation with other people having the same trouble. I said “I think the one on 22nd street is open!” They didn’t say a word. Why am I social cancer?


(This bunny has more shyness than I do and I bet he even would have gotten a response)

I got into the train and on the second stop a girl sat down next to me. There were plenty more open seats (like my face for instance) but she chose to sit to my right. I gave her the creepy man’s test which is to smack my knee into her every so often to see if it scared her off. It didn’t! Had I made a friend? Or had she not really even been thinking about it because the only reason she was sitting next to me was so she could stare at the studly Australian guy sitting across the train car? I’ll never know because what could I have ever said to her, “Hey, I’m going to smack my knee into yours and see if it bothers you”?

Only two days later I no longer felt the immediate need to make a new friend. Making new friends would be nice and I’m still on the lookout, but why do I need to force it? It will happen when it happens. I have other things I’m trying to accomplish right now. Plus, who likes the hero in a story to succeed in the first act? Nobody. Time for round two.

In an attempt to do more things other than write TV pilots that just sit as PDF files on my computer with nobody caring about them whatsoever, I decided a little over a week ago I should try to make my own show. I have an obsession with episodic storylines where we can watch a character grow along the way while others come and go. I tried acting in one idea I had which I still think is a great idea, only I’m a terrible actor and it would have taken me forever to do the editing because the free program I was using moved too slowly. If I wanted to create my own web series I would have to resort to animation. I found a free Stick Figure program online that I read was really simple. I tested it out and the next day I got to putting an actual idea together. The result, 4 straight days of hardly doing anything else other than animating stick figures to move, swear, and violently kill each other. In the end after what was a ridiculous amount of time I put into it, this was the result. The debut of Stick Prison an ultraviolent, bloody, foul comedy about Stick Figures in prison.


Feedback, ideas, or help in any way either creatively or simply by sharing this is anywhere you can think of is much appreciated.

Final Notes:

The YouTube URL in case you feel so inclined is: youtube=

The second episode should be out in 2 weeks.

Yes I did everything except the music. But I did have to search through a free archive for 4 hours to find something good. I did suffer.

I’m really tired.


Mentioning how all of the Gifted and Talented students are whores who pleasure the principal in a backroom during my last post reminded me of the time in third grade I was denied entrance into the Gifted and Talented Program. I’m not bitter about it or anything. It’s not like they got to go on field trips or had better college resumes than me or anything, right? Fuck I hate losing.

Third grade was a big year for me. I made new friends, broke my leg, and offered a kid hockey cards in exchange for erasing a mistake I made on a test to help me get a better grade. The teacher had us exchange our tests with other class members and we’d grade them. This pussy said it was important to follow the rules and did not accept my barter. Seriously? You’re 9 years old and you’re going to pull a morality card on me? A square could not be drawn with angles 90 degrees enough for me to describe this loser.


(See, it’s more of a rectangle to describe that dumb classmate of mine. Ugh I hate nerds)

This same year was one where I was recommended by my teacher to try out for the Gifted and Talented program. I didn’t like my third grade teacher much but she thought highly enough of me. I had some probably with motor skills or so I was told. I was a little too ambidextrous and this was apparently a problem. My mom told my teacher I was always doing things right and left handed which has never been true. She said I was even a “switch hitter” referencing baseball where a player will bat righty and lefty. I’m pretty sure my teacher didn’t get the baseball analogy and thought my mom was calling me bisexual. That’s why she sat me in between a boy and a girl to see which one I’d pick. I picked the boy because girls used to scare me.

Two businesspeople shaking hands.

(Attractive, owns a suit, shakes hands, and seems to be employed. I’m fucking terrified)

The day for me to test for the GT Program arrived. I was whisked away by the GT Teacher into a computer lab. This was probably around 1996. Back then all computers could do was turn on then white text would appear over a blue background or green text over a black one. We’ve come so far.

I sat at a table with the woman. She had a puzzle for me to do. I’m not sure what the puzzle was because I didn’t even come close to putting it together. The next test was a word association game. We made it through about 5 words before she gave up and decided it was time for the final round.

The teacher slid me a piece of paper. On this paper were about 30 different squares. She handed me a pencil and said “I want you to look at the squares on this paper and using them draw a picture with each.” I’m a really bad artist. I couldn’t draw to save my life. I couldn’t draw to save someone else’s life. Really. One time I was in a situation with a friend. A guy held a chainsaw to the friend’s throat and told me to draw a smiley face. That friend of mine, he no longer has a head. This was rough territory for me. If I was going to get into GT I would have to find some artistic gifts and talents deep in my colon.

I was timed by the woman for what I think was 3 minutes. When the buzzer rang she told me to go over each square I had turned into something else. The first was a house. I got that out of the way easy. The second was a baseball diamond. Okay, a little more creative. Next was a hamper. All I did was write “Hamper” on the square. After that was first base. Again, all I did was write “First Base” on it. The teacher said “You already did a baseball one. Let’s not count that.” Second base, third base, and home plate were not counted either. I drew a few other things that got little to no reaction. I remember her looking at me and saying “You really didn’t come up with too many ideas. Half of the squares are still blank.” She said it nicer because she realized she was dealing with an idiot.


(Given this test again I would probably just draw a stool for me to step onto then off with a noose around my neck. I really blew my chance at getting a slight educational advantage)

I was sent on my way. A week later my teacher said I was not accepted. She was actually really nice and even said to my mom how a lot of really smart kids don’t get into the program because it’s more focus on a specific kind of thinking and not so much on where my talents were. She said another smart kid in the class didn’t get into it either. That kid happened to be the one who refused to help me cheat. If I had to guess what he would have drawn on those squares it would have been his own face. Damn it I hate him and damn it I hate gifted and talented children.

There’s not much I’m very good at. Most men have some talents where they can either fix cars or be abusive toward women and get away with it. I’m not like that. I don’t know the difference between a car and woman anyone. Which is the one that nags? But there was one point in my life, one short semester where I was a manly man. At this time in my life I managed to build this:


(The magazine rack I made when I was 14)


(And here I am photobombing the magazine rack)

I’m much more amazed than you are that I actually put this together. I almost always cut myself brushing my teeth I’m so clumsy. Or maybe that’s actually a serious medical condition I should get checked out. The point is, I managed to reach deep inside my soul and create a place for magazines to poorly rest within.

In 8th grade we were all given a choice as to which elective to take. We could take band, home economics, give a blow job to the principal and get into the Gifted and Talented program, or take metal and woodshop. I have no musical talent, home economics is for women, and the principal was not cute enough for me to attempt to get into GT. All I was left with was becoming a master craftsman.

The first two marking periods which made up one semester I had metal shop. My teacher was Mr. Sullivan, a grizzled bald Vietnam Veteran who on 9/11 said “If those towel heads try to blow up the World Trade Center again I will bitch slap them all with my pimp hand.” He didn’t exactly use those words but he did tell us in a subtle way hours before they made the announcement that we were under attack.

In metal shop most of the class was spent doing homework for other classes and general tomfoolery. The first project was to make a battery operated cardboard car. Mr. Sullivan had not heard of a man named Henry Ford who has made battery operated cardboard cars obsolete. I got my car to run, barely and we moved onto the next project. This project was to build a chisel. How do you build something that builds something else? I don’t remember how I built it but I did. I think I may have just brought in a knife. Mr. Sullivan or Vinasull as we would call him to confuse him, was so senile and old at this point he would not matter. He was just happy I wasn’t Vietnamese.


(Vinasull loved the smell of Napalm in the morning. It smelt like useless assignments to keep us busy for a marking period)

The final two marking periods were spent in woodshop where I would make this magazine rack. We were given tests in this class where the average score anyone would get was a 30% F. One girl literally got 0 questions correct on a multiple choice. That’s like going to Rutgers University in New Brunswick, New Jersey and not getting a herpes sore on your face. I really hate that college.

Finally we were allowed to start working on our magazine racks despite it being clear none of us were knowledgeable enough to use the power tools. A few of the kids seemed to know their way around a buzz saw while my friends and I did our Language Arts homework while someone else took a shift making sure the teacher, Mr. Bordas or Bordasull as we would call him to confuse him, didn’t notice we weren’t working on our magazine racks.

The semester was winding down and I had to work harder on my project. I sanded down the wood, I put some sticky stuff on it, I hammered nails, I put more sticky stuff over the nails, and I continued this process until I realized I was doing it totally wrong. Somehow one kid in the class had built a chair in the time it took me to figure out I was making my magazine rack incorrectly. Showoff. But can a chair hold a magazine?


(Nope. Just books. Magazine Racks > Chairs)

I fell so far behind the teacher told me I could come in early to work on the magazine rack the final week of class to get it down. It didn’t take more than two days of arriving early for me to bust my ass and get the thing built. I was proud and I kept that magazine rack until my recent move where I got rid of it. Like many things in life, this magazine rack was there for me but it has served its purpose. 12 years later and less room to cram the thing, I have decided to part ways. It also doesn’t really work well even though I built it the right away. What a dumb thing to build.

I also would like to acknowledge although I have little skills when it comes to being a manly man I was awarded the “Special Effort Award” for my time in metal shop and woodshop. I didn’t go to the ceremony because I hate sitting around for 5 hours watching classmates win awards. I’m not sure where my paper went saying how I was a Special Effort Champion but as long as it remains in my heart I will forever hold the glory that comes with it.

I’ve been unemployed and living in a new town a little over a month now. In that time I have done a lot of good with my time. I’m at the point now where expectations for myself have gone even higher than before which was pretty high already. I think I’ve always had high expectations for myself. When I was younger I once discovered a freckle near my pinky. I assumed this freckle was a physical flaw and did whatever I could to try washing it off. At one point I figured the freckle was also a piece of shit that grafted itself into my hand. I think I’m at that point again. If I find one back hair longer than the other I freak out. Who could ever love a man with different sized back hairs?

Over the last few weeks, I guess it’s only been about 3 but it’s felt like a whole lot more, I’ve been doing whatever it takes to build up my credibility and keep productive. Although in retrospect I’ve gotten done in 3 weeks what would have probably normally taken me maybe 6 or 7, it still doesn’t feel like it’s enough. I come from the MTV generation. I need immediate satisfaction. I like my food fast, my cars furious, and my sex to last no longer than 10 seconds. I thought I was stronger than this but I guess I’m like everyone else.

So to feed the little boy inside me that’s jumping up and down yelling “Pay attention to me! Look over here! Daddy, why are you always at work? Mommy, can you turn off the TV and listen to me. Teacher, why don’t you remember my name? Friends, where are you?” I am going to attempt to over the next few weeks on a weekly basis share one “creative endeavor” I have undertaken. This can be anything like the video I did yesterday to me sharing a few stories from my stand-up comedy days to the premiere of my own short animated series I put together and finished up yesterday. Hint, hint, I don’t feel like hyping something up big time if it falls flat. But trust me, I never put hard work into anything then actually release it publicly unless I can live with it being terrible. I’ve probably filmed 5 hours worth of footage from me trying to make videos and very few ever make it because I either think I look fat in the video or it’s just plain bad. What I’m saying is don’t get your hopes up but also maybe get a little excited?

I guess that’s all. Oh here are just two observations about things women that annoy me.

“Do you think you can handle me?” – woman

How is this a flirtatious thing to say? All it lets me know is that you’re a troublemaker and you’re difficult to handle. Do you know what else is difficult to handle? Biohazardous material. And I stay away from that shit.

“I don’t bite. At least not hard.” – woman

Then say you nibble. There’s a word for not biting hard, nibbling. Use it. Expand your vocabulary.


(I hope this picture was created for the phrase “Her bark is bigger than her bite” because I would hate for this nice gal to have to do this for any other reason than a cliché)

Do you hate reading? Boy do I know I do! Here is another short video I created. This was before I downloaded my editing program so I had to whip out my acting chops which are nowhere to be found. It took me 40 minutes to get through the first 40 seconds and when I finally did I decided to just go with it. My apologies for being such a bad actor. If I can be such a man about admitting my weaknesses as an actor then what’s Mark Wahlberg’s deal? Admit it Marky Mark, you suck.

The video is about my Alter Ego, a pretentious author. When you run into enough “talented” people you will meet people like the fellow I portray in this film. Before you call me a hypocrite remember, at least I don’t have my name written in block lettering across my refrigerator. Enjoy.

*Special Note: I’m not wearing pants in this video. They were causing me to stumble so I removed them. You can now say you saw me panstless and peacefully blow out your brains.

hank gimp

What better day to post about dreams? Today is that big dreaming schemer Martin Luther King Jr.’s birthday. It seemed way too inappropriate not to post this today.

I like interpreting dreams because I like making stupid people think I’m really smart when I easily take one of their obvious insecurities and relate it to a dream. Yep, that’s how you do it. The carny trick has been revealed. Now that you know this is how it’s done and you know if you read this blog enough about me, I would like you to help interpret a dream I recently had.

The dream started off late into an adventure. I had for some reason signed up for a contest to win free train tickets for a year. I guess I would really sign up for this if it was a real contest though because train tickets are expensive. I think we could probably knock the price down a couple bucks if we didn’t have the ticket takers and conductors wear such fancy clothing with hats. At least get rid of the hats. Punching holes into tickets is not a job that requires a cap.


(Does she really need the hat to operate a train properly? As seductive as I’m sure she is, a train conductor is never something I have fantasized about)

The way the contest worked was basically like The Amazing Race. We had to take public transportation from place to place and using the electronic ticket machines buy very specified tickets. Somehow I managed to get to the final leg of the contest. Unfortunately though my opponent was Usain Bolt, Olympian and fastest man in the world. I never think about Usain Bolt. There is no reason why he should be in my dream. He even had on his stupid yellow track shirt. Did I see a Nike commercial recently? Is this guy the Jamaican Freddy Krueger?

While on the final train headed to the last ticket machine Mr. Bolt turned to me and said “Tim, I know these tickets will be much more valuable to you. I’m going to throw the challenge and let you win. I don’t even live locally. What am I going to do with those tickets?” Only he said it in more dream speak where he didn’t articulate himself well and I simply just knew what he was saying.


(Usain Bolt, the fastest man alive, closest to man to ever run a mile while running picking his nose)

The train stopped and we ran off. He dragged his feet and let me get a huge head start. At the ticket machine we began to try buying our tickets. All I had to do was push all the right buttons then hop on the train and I would win. This is when trouble struck. I couldn’t figure it out. Buying these tickets mine as well have been trying to tie a woman’s tubes. Like I think I could figure out a way to accidentally tie the tubes, like literally tying them like shoelaces, but no matter what buttons I pushed on the machine nothing was working.

Mr. Bolt was doing his best to let me do what I had to do. I was sweating and kept screwing up. Finally the ticket began to print. I made a dash for the gate and when I put the ticket into the machine it said “Insufficient Funds” meaning I had done something incorrectly. The security guard standing nearby began laughing at me and hurling insults. His insults and observations about how much I sucked did nothing to help me. I was even more discombobulated than ever before now and it looked like I would never buy the ticket I needed.

It was around this time I woke up. The first thing I thought was how often I have dreams like this. I must at least once a month have a dream where I’m back in little league baseball. Whenever it comes my turn to go up to bat I wake up. Part of it is from nerves and another is from the stress I get of having all eyes on me, an entire team dependent on how I do. Still, I think there’s a lot more to it.

So I ask you, what do you think my dream means?