Cult of Personality

In further proof that my face is the next Obey Giant shit, my homie Ben Whedon sent me this version of myself rendered by the rasterbator hanging on his wall.

Fame, dog.


On an interesting sidenote, I'm actually linking like a real blogger now. Yay for me.

I Take A Lot of Dumps At Work

Something I've always done at wherever I've worked is take a lot of dumps. I don't know what it is about being at work that makes me want to unload massive craps, but even when I've worked at busy ass places with gross bathrooms, I still have always taken more than my share of workplace craps. I think maybe it's the solace offered by both the bathroom (a good place to catch up on the morning papers) as well as the calming effects of emptying your bowels that makes taking shits at work so nice. Regardless, in recognition of my achievments in the area of workplace shitting, my co-workers erected a framed print of the recent portrait of me rendered by eminent graphic designer JPEG. GANGSTER SHIT.

I Now Look 20% More Like a Clown, Bowling

So yeah, one of things I have a serious problem with doin way to much of besides eating and drinking alcohol and talking shit about people, is buying super gay looking shoes for exorbitant amounts of money. Another problem is that I used to work at this super crunk shoe place, who always gives me just enough of a discount to make me buy shit, but not quite enough to make it entirely pain free. My old man always told me to never skimp on buying good tires for your car "since that's the only part that touches the road" so I guess I carried that same idea into the footwear world.

My Brother Cuts the Brains Out of Mice

So a lot of people who know me don't really know that I have an older brother. Not I only do I have one, but I live with him too. You just don't really see him that much. That's because he gets paid to cut the brains out of mice and rats. He's working on some research grant on some neurolgical something or other, where he has to raise mice then cut their brains out and look at them. Gangster shit. Thankfully, since he is in town for awhile cutting heads off mice, and I'm in town for awhile doing the shit I do to grind, we decided to contribute to suburban sprawl and get a new place out on the edge of town. Sucks for the fairy shrimp and the meadow foam, but at least we get a new condo that no stinky fuckers have ever lived in. It also means that I will live in Chico for the next 100 years trying to pay that shit off but it's not like I was planning on going anywhere anyway.

Extreme Sushi Challenge: The Conclusion

They always say that the quickest way to learn a language is total immersion. This past week I learned to language of sushi, or at least American sushi. I learned that good sushi is definitely a lot better than bad sushi. Especially free good sushi like that pictured above (thanks Karen!). I also learned that salt is bad for you, but that sashimi takes exactly like big chunks of raw fish without soy sauce. I learned that sushi is probably not really any better for you than anything else, it just feels like it should be. I also learned that your body gets used to things real fast and doesn't really like it when you change. My first non-sushi meal of the last 5 days ended up partially digested on my front lawn. Hopefully I didn't completely melt my brain with pollution-addled tuna meat, but even if I did, it was probably worth it.

Extreme Sushi Challenge: Day 3

Today I encountered an unforseen X-factor in the sushi challenge. Up to this point I had figured my main obstacles would be a lack of funding and constant the constant temptation of Taco Wagon burrittos and pizza. But I've found that at this point, after lunch on Day 3, my truest foe has turned out to be my old friend NaCl: salt. You see being an American, and growing up putting ketchup on any and all ketchupable dishes, I can't eat sushi or rice without tons of soy sauce, siracha, and rice vinegar. And all that shit is made out of salt. And when you eat that shit like three times a day, the salt starts to build up. Last night I layed in bed, mouth watering from extreme salt-induced dehydration. I felt like I had just downed a 40 of salt water. Today, I feel like I'm in the advanced stages of hypertension: tight chest, saliva-filled mouth, general filling of illishness. The coffee isn't helping.
However, I will persevere. I will complete my challenge. Neither Mercury nor Salt nor cheap fishy sushi will compromise my resolve. I will make the crowd roar like a sea monster.

*custom food pyramid rendered by MC Oroville

Since Kids Need Energy

So I'm sure everyone older than 20 can remember how, back when we were kids, how a fucking big ass soda was like 32-ounces, at the most. Then when AmPm came out with the 44 ounce or whatever, dudes straight up flipped their lids: me and boys rocked our BMXs to that shit like twice a day, got hella fat and probably rendered ourselves permanently impotent in the process.
Likewise, it has been thoroughly documented how not only have soda sizes reached ludicrous levels (I think I saw a 100oz one at Circle K) but that kids are even more strung out on soda than ever. In fact, kids got so fucking strung out on soda, that they had to invent something far more loaded with sugar and caffeine and other fucked up herbal drugs to fade kids even harder, or at least the ones not old enough to hit Starbucks. Thus came forth "energy drinks" like Red Bull, Monster, Rockstar, and my personal favorite, Power Horse. Now like soda pop, energy drinks started off small. Since they were so fucking potent (enough to need warning labels), they came in little 8oz cans, which still proved to be more than most any sane (read:old) person could handle. But lo and behold, kids started slamming 2 or 3 of these at a time to get their shit going, so when the next generation of drinks (Monster, Rockstar, etc) came out, they bumped it up to 16oz, which seemed almost dangerous.
But just as you thought that the world would at least resume rotting at a rate invisible to the naked eye, out comes THE 24OZ CAN OF ROCKSTAR.
Since a single Rockstar, or even 2, are nowhere near enough to satiate the desires of today's on-the-go teen, 24oz Rockstar packs THREE TIMES the punch of regular Rockstar. All for $2.69. Seriously, who the fuck needs cigarettes anymore. Or meth. Well I guess maybe if kids do meth and Rockstar in conjunction, that'd be really cool. I guess on the brightside, there will probably be a whole new generation of super awesome speedmetal and thrash bands. And noxema will definitely stay in business. HOORAY WORLD

How-To: Be the Editor of a Home and Garden Magazine

Do this. A lot.

Extreme Sushi Challenge: Day 2

It's already gotten pretty tough: after yesterday's real sushi lunch, the past two meals have both been Safeway pseudo sushi, including last night's Extreme Sushi Challenge: Home Edition, pictured above. But payday is tomorrow, so hopefully a injection of liquid assets into my sushi fund will raise morale.

Extreme Sushi Challenge: Day 1

So the thing that's nice about being a writer is that you can say whatever you want most of the time, and no one bothers challenging it. But sometimes, you have to put your money where your mouth is. Such is the case with my recent claim that the path to happiness includes a diet of Coffee, Sushi and Alcohol. The gauntlet was thrown down, and I accepted the challenge. Starting last night, and for the rest of this week. I, Daniel Taylor will stick to coffee, sushi and alcohol*, exclusively. I seek no monetary rewards from accomplishing my given task, other than the furthering of my legendary status of a god amongst journalists.


* The term "coffee"will also extend to the consumption of Iced Tea. There will also be an exception made for fresh fruit, which though not a part of sushi, is cheap as fuck, and will help me from going broke as part of this experiment, and will also prevent me from getting scurvey or rot gut.

One of the Few Crunk Things About San Francisco

You should definitely go see The Wild Parrots of Telegraph Hill, a documentary about a flock of wild cherry headed conures inhabiting a San Francisco neighborhood and the post-beatnik bum dude who took care of them.

However, what you should not do is see the movie, and how cute and amazing parrots are then go out and buy one. Because I promise you, unless you are a fucked up person, a slob, a jackass or all of the above, a parrot will drive you fucking crazy. That's how the above mentioned flock of parrots got there in first place: a bunch of fundian San Franciscans bought parrots and after a week of hearing those fuckers holler at 4 AM let them out the window. And though it is pretty cool that there are parrots in San Francisco, I don't think they really need any more than what they got. Native California birds probably aren't really all that stoked, except for the hawks who get to eat those fuckers.

Finch: A Matter of National Security

So the other day Brian was rapping about how the music industry were all dicktards. For further proof of this phenomena, I submit to you the forthcoming Finch CD and more specifically, the tight security enveloping it.
Now, in case you weren't otherwise knowledgable about Finch, let me give you a little info. The band falls well within the boundaries of what the kids are calling emo, only with a little more hollering and a little more nu-metalling. They put out a record a few years back on Drive Thru, which was met with a little bit of fanfare but nothing special. Long story short, Finch aren't exactly going to change the world. An entire litany of bands: Thrice, Glassjaw, etc have already done more or less exactly what they are doing, but better, and didn;t really get shit for attention.
However, you would never guess that from the promotional copies of the album sent out to press outlets. The CDs come sealed inside a portable CD player. Yes, they actually send you a CD player with the new Finch CD glued inside of it. I guess they're afraid that journalists, being mostly anarchists and homewreckers will immediately upon reception of a promotional copy of some shitty nu-emo band get on the internet and give it out to all the 13-year-old mallrats who already have that shit on pre-order at Hot Topic. But they don't stop there. They, of course, know that journalists are crafty, and are so motivated to spread Finch's music like a virus, that they must create even further obstacles to the CD's duplication. The CD inside the glued shut CD player is itself embedded with anti-piracy software making it unplayable on any computer and even some stereos. So even it you break open the CD player carefully enough to extract the CD, you still won't be able to do anything with it. Better safe than sorry I guess.

You Suck, Here’s Why

Sorry: Though I will probably get death threats, letters of protests, and beat up in a dark alley in the middle of the night, I nevertheless feel it is my duty to bring to light some things that have recently come to my attention. If you don’t really have the time to read the whole thing, I’ll give you the moral of the story: you suck a dog’s ass. I understand that it might be tough to hear that, coming from an authority on the issue such as myself, but it’s true. You aren’t really all that cool. In fact, you’re pretty much the other thing, the thing that means not cool: the suck. You are the suck, and I’ll tell you why.

You’re the Dude at the Team Sleep Show Yelling for Deftones songs: The thing about this one is that it’d be almost cool if you were doing it to fuck with Chino’s fat ass. But you were serious, and worst of all, you actually believed that Chino might break his new, completely unrelated, decidedly anti-Deftones band into a stirring rendition of “Bored.” You’re probably the same guy who still goes to shows and yells “play some Skynyrd!” Dumb.

You’re the Proprietor of a Business that only Takes Cash or Check: It’s cool that you wish it was still 1986, but seriously this is really quite appalling. Debit cards are the new cash. Who wants to carry around a fat ass wad of bills that you end up dropping on the ground anyway? That’s why they invented that shit, to make cash obsolete. It’s just asstards like you who are worried about the three cents it costs to process the transaction that keep us locked into an outdated model of consuming. In Japan they don’t even need cards, they have that shit stored on a microchip in their eyeball. When they buy something they just look at some shit and “cha-ching!” At least that’s what my friend told me.

You’re the Guy who Constantly Slags Chico, But Still Lives Here: Guess what, Chico’s not Paris. It’s not London. It’s not NYC, LA, or SF. It’s not Portland or Seattle. It’s not even Sacramento. It’s Chico, it’s little. There are lots of old people who are stupid, and young people who are stupid. That’s probably not going to change. So my suggestion is, if you crave the urban life, get the fuck out of dodge. It’s not that hard. There are buses, planes and even trains that leave Chico every day for any point on the map you can imagine. But that would be kind of hard, so instead you’re just gonna sit in Duffy’s or smoke cigarettes outside of shows and go off about how “there’s never anything to do here,” or “the scene here is super dead. I was in Sacramento last week…” But you know what, I’ll go to a show in six months and you will be there. Maybe you even moved away for a few weeks. But “it didn’t work out.” Awesome bro!

You’re the Girl in the Jetta: Have you ever thought about modeling? Because, you know, you’re way prettier than those girls on TV. Even in your sweatpants and Uggs at Starbucks for your morning Frappuccino, you can totally tell that you are naturally beautiful.

You’re the Guy who Peels Out on the Green Light: That “Powered by Honda” sticker is pretty sick and all, and you really did get a good jump off the line, but guess what? In exactly one block there is another stoplight. And it’s red. Which means stop. So no matter how fast you get there, you’ll still have to wait until that shit turns green.

You’re the Guy With the Column in Some Shitty Local Paper: You, my friend, are the worst of all. You suck more assloads than the lady at the colonic clinic. You go to shows and think that you’re totally sweet because some girl recognized and totally read something you said once and pinned it up on her bedroom wall. You read some books back before you were a drunk worthless scene cunt, and now you think you’re fucking Mr. Chico king shit. Well guess what? Everyone sees through your bullshit tough guy persona. Everyone knows that you’re just some kid from Willows who drinks Bud Light, listens to jock emo, and tries calling people out to compensate for the fact that there really is nothing original going on in the balding head of yours. You really suck. Asshole.

Zen and the Art of Being a Balding Hipster

Nohawk: It was revealed this past week that the Ivory Billed Woodpecker — which Theodore Roosevelt called the “Lord God” Bird, as anyone who saw its immense majesty would immediately exclaim that exact phrase — was not quite as extinct as bird lovers and conservationists had thought: a specimen was sighted deep within the Arkansas swamp, marking the first documented sighting in 60 years. However, as one bird was resurrected from the company of the Dodo — and what is for me the saddest of domestic birds to have gone extinct, North America’s only native parrot, the Carolina Parakeet — another bird was added to list of those never to be seen again by the eyes of man save for photographs and illustrated depictions in historical texts. The last surviving specimen of Mohawkus Taylorien, commonly known as my Mohawk, was slain by a pair of clippers this past week, leaving my head something of an empty nest. “But can’t they breed those in captivity?” you might be asking. And indeed, it would seem to be a mere trifle for most boys and girls to grow back a few inches of hair back onto their head. But you see, the removal of the Mohawk from my head revealed a fact that, though the signs had all been there, I had been trying my best to ignore. I, Daniel Taylor, connoisseur of mall-emo metrosexual hairstyles, am going bald. I first thought that it had to be some sort of optical illusion, that it was just the shock of head without the effects of a stylized hairdo. But inspection and a polling of unbiased colleagues has assured me my hair is indeed thinning in the place it counts the most, right there in the front where all the good shit happens. I guess maybe it’s karma for all the times I’ve made fun of all the old hippies rocking bald ass domes with ponytails. Maybe I’ll be that guy with a Mohawk comb-over, or a Mohawk toupee. Maybe as the mall-emo generation eases into middle age Hot Topic will open a new line of stores for “edgy dads.” I mean they already have that Torrid store, which they describe as “sexy fashion brand which empowers plus size young women.” There are of course more colorful ways to describe their clientele, but in lieu of our recent run-ins with Chico’s sensitivity squad, I’ll leave that one as fill-in the blank. Besides, we were talking about being bald….

Wisdom: The thing about going bald is that it’s not really even all that bad when you think about it. I mean, dudes always seem to be all worried about it, but I think that they’ve just seen a few too many of those stupid fucking Rogaine ads where some dude gets denied by some MILF-ish broad in favor of some more hirsute man. But in reality, bald dudes seem to wreck as much if not more tang than anyone else. I mean, sure they might not seem quite as cool or whatever, and might not be able to rock the hair style of the moment. But at least if you’re bald and some girl’s still all about you, it’s not just because you have hair like some dude in some band that she jocks. Being bald is like getting gray hair: it’s a mark of wisdom and life experience. If you’re going bald it’s because you’ve done so much heavy thinking about highly important and relevant issues that your head has no extra energy to grow any hair. And there’s nothing sexier to women than being a deep thinker. Except maybe being tall with big hands. Or being the bass player in an emo band. Or having a truck with really big tires. But deep thinker is definitely at least in the top five.

Besides: Aside from the look of ancient wisdom, being bald also has a litany of other benefits: no more buying $20 tubes of hair glue, all my hats fit so much better (especially backwards!), an extra five minutes of sleeping in the morning before work, and mo more worries about what hair style I should rock. Only problem is, now I have no idea what the fuck I’m supposed to write about every week…




The Carolina Parakeet RIP