Last Snow Ever Redux - Click to play

This is a better, shorter version of Last Snow Ever, my previous post. Starring Hoboken, snow, my tongue, a lawn chair, street lamps, and an odd star-embossed snow-covered circular chimney cap.

Tagged “Snow” at

Last Snow - Click to Play

In honor of Verdi’s Vlog Anarchy Week, I give you the longest video blog post ever. Running time 14:28. Over 100 mb. Boring as shit. Except the part where it’s snowing. That’s pretty good. Plus, I promise this video is better than “Hitch”, although I haven’t seen it yet. Romantic comedies are for people with no sense of romance or comedy.

If filmmaking is like cooking, wherein the actual shooting is the ingredients, and editing is the grilling or baking, then this video is a big bowl of raw, chopped beef. Also, since this is basically unedited, you can see how self-centered and narcissistic I am after a few drinks. More shots of myself than anything else. I need to stop that in future shooting.

If you watch this entire video, I’ll give you a money piece. I promise. Just email me and I’ll Paypal you a quarter. Torture is a hobby of mine.

Tagged “Vlog Anarchy” at

Other anarchists include:

Michael Verdi

Eric Rice

Andreas Haugstrup Pedersen

Chuck Olsen
and
Unmediated

Jay and Ryanne

Eric Nelson, Bottom Union

Rocktapus Rehearsal - Click to Play

Rick and Lenny (my roommates, or flatmates if you want to be all British and snobby) and I are in a band called Rocktapus. We rock hard, and sometimes all night. Rick is on the left in the video.

Some day I will look back at this from my beautiful villa in Mexico that I bought with Rocktapus money and wonder, “How did we rock so hard, and so long?” Then I’ll have my indentured servant girls feed me more grapes as they pour wine all over their bodies and dance.

Tagged “rocktapus” at

Sunday Drive - Click to Play

A trip I took on Sunday with Rick, one of my new roommates.

Rock and roll has gotten a lot prettier recently. What a shame.

Tagged “jersey” at

Wild Turkey Toast

Hunter S. Thompson died yesterday.

Hunter stomped terra. He marched on a road of bones.

He was a true southern gentleman and a magnificent bastard.

His writing changed journalism, and amplified the “good” part of an already loud America.

I never met Hunter, but I miss the hell out of him. We needed a Hunter S. Thompson here, and now that we don’t have one the space he occupied can’t be filled.

Hunter was a living example of controlled chaos, as evidenced by his suicide.
He’s shot tens of thousands of rounds of ammunition while on thousands of drug/alcohol binges, yet never did he kill or injure anyone but, finally and purposefully, himself. (Except for once when a ricochet sprayed some gravel at his assistant, but that wasn’t his fault.)

He was one of the good guys. I was walking down the street today after having a Wild Turkey on the rocks in honor of the good doctor and I felt genuinely sad. Like the world was a lot less interesting.

It felt like the Good Guys lost our star player, and now the Bad Guys were one step closer to closing the deal.

Rough stuff.
Read the rest of this entry »

Celery Interview #3 - Click to Play

I apologize for the terrible quality of this post. In the future I’ll make sure the gain on my celery is turned up all the way.

Part three in the Celery Interview series includes:

Football is sexually exciting
I love the 90’s rocks
Moosejaw

This was a fun idea. Look for future interviews done with other vegetables.

Celery Interview #2 - Click to Play

Part two in the Celery Interview series includes:

The importance of electricity
Green vs. white Xmas trees
Ex-girlfriends with superfluous limbs
The suckiness of Ireland

Celery Interview #1 - Click to Play

Part one of a series of interviews from last weekend’s super bowl party. What do you shave with? Mach Catorce?

Wall Pong - Click to Play

A collection of random clips from the past couple days:

Sunglasses at night
Wet sidewalk
Death bride
Wall pong
Tired cat

Iguana Hard Life - Click to Play

This iguana is named Bruce. Bruce lives in Mexico on the beach. He tries to throw you off with all the affable head-nodding, but he really has a hard life. Last week he was shit-canned from the dog track where he worked part-time as a ticket sweeper. His wife promptly threw him out, as she claimed, “I have 48 eggs to bury today and you come home with this news? Well, they’re not even yours Bruce. It was the chameleon boy who cleans the cave. Just leave.”

He’s been pacing back and forth from rock to rock ever since.