"R.I.P. Skull Fracture"

Over the last two months, we’ve played a handful of shows—a few bars, a house party—and they all went well, or at least pretty well, but we’ve come to the conclusion that Skull Fracture’s days are over. It’s a good time to stop; I dont want to be thirty-five and playing basement shows with bands with names like Kill Your Parents, Drug of Choice, Death Grip, Warpath, and Jeffro Tull. You know?

We still have some copies of “Blunt Force Trauma,” a five-song 4-track demo we recorded with all our songs on it:

1. Live Fast and Die Stupid
2. Wrecking Ball
3. Now You Die!
4. Blunt Force Trauma
5. Make Your Own Dinner, Keith, ‘Cuz I’m Playin’ Drums!

They're two bucks. Just contact us through the website. It’s been fun. Fred and I are already discussing a new group, The Sacrificial Lambs. The first album: "Like Lambs To The Slaughter!"

Goodnight!

"Fifth-Grade Birthday Party"

*Dedicated to Jess*

It was my fifth-grade birthday party and, man, I had to deliver. You see, I had just started at a new school and this birthday party was a lovely opportunity to put myself in good stead with my fellow classmates—well, actually just the boys (we were all ten and eleven so girls weren’t really in the picture yet). Anywho, I had the situation on lockdown: I (my mom) rented out an arcade—yes, an arcade—and she gave each partygoer five dollars in quarters—actually, some greedy ones more—to play the awesome video games at my awesome arcade-rented-out birthday parté.

Everything was going swimmingly. Then came time for food, then cake, then presents.

This is where my awesome party became significantly less awesome.

Most of the presents were not very good, HOWEVER, things took a turn for whatever exists below worse with two particularly atrocious “gifts.”

We’re talkin’ monstrosities here, people.

Exhibit A: Five dollars and a birthday card from three people. Yes, three—count ‘em: one, two, three—people. But then things crashed through rock bottom when the following was bestowed upon me: a T-shirt, the design of which, depicted “God’s Creation” by Michelangelo with a twist—the finger of man was not touching the finger of God, but rather the utter of a cow. ?!?. And check this out: it said Milkalangelo beneath the design. And perhaps what stung the most is that a lot of these kids were/still are wealthy-to-extremely wealthy. What I’m sayin’ is, I’m pretty sure they could of afforded more than a birthday card and five bucks spread three ways. And as far as the Milkalangelo shirt, it was clearly a T-shirt to be worn in public with great trepidation.

"Some Days You Just Can't Win"

It was the last day of my junior year of high school and—read the next five words with a southern drawl—I had myself a problem: I didn’t have a ride home.

Important background information: At this point in my career as a human being—I was seventeen—I did not yet have a license, so I was one of those guys who should of had their license, but didn’t.

Failed the driver’s license test three times.
Three times.

Anyway, so having no license—three times?—I was almost always escorted via automobile to and from school by either of my good friends, Matt Mazzoni—Mazzoni!—or James B. Downs. How-ev-er, because of the way our exam schedules worked out, neither of the lads chauffeuring services were available, so I got done—improper English—should be “I finished”—my last exam and the ride-home situation was a Ted Nugent song and a free-for-all.

Okay, something I should of mentioned earlier: my—like I own it?—high school was/still is in the city—actually, the ghetto. “City of Compton/City of Compton”—and young men ages thirteen to eighteen who were, and hopefully still are, members of the human race matriculated, and again still do, from all over, some from another state, New Jersey, to aforementioned school, little old me hailing from the a suburb a good thirty minutes away, and so it was a take-what-you-could-get situation and I snagged a ride with a kid I kinda know. But guess what?—That’s what—We’re not going home; the kid and his buddy, who’s riding shotgun, have some booze in the trunk because they’re, and everyone else in the car, going to a shady spot where people drink.

So we were drivin’ along—sing this part jovially in your head: la, di, dat, dat, da—and the driver, who’s driving way too fast and also not paying attention, BOOM! rear ends this car and being an idiot and not wearing my seatbelt, I fly forward, slamming my forehead against the back of the driver’s headrest, and then snap back and hit the back of my head against my own headrest. It hurt.

Panic. We just got in an accident, and we’re all underage, and there’s booze in the vehicle.

Whatta we do?

Gotta talk to the other driver. Gotta call the cops. The alcohol: Gotta get it out of the car. Hide it somewhere.

Somewhere in the midst of all this, driver turns back to me.
“Are you all right? Are you hurt?”
“I don’t know. I think so.”
“Just say you’re all right to the cops.”

Friend hides the beer, which is concealed in a paper shopping bag, behind a tree on the side of the road; cop shows up; the whole rigamarole.
“We’re safe to drive home.”
Cop leaves and clearly we don’t go home, but instead the friend grabs the bag, we pull away, and then go to the shady drinking spot where I don’t drink because I don’t drink at this point in my life, but still hang out, and somewhere along the line for some reason I can’t remember the kid leaves, or maybe, and understandably, I don’t want to continue on my journey home with him and I am again sans ride home and it has started to rain.

Nugent is playing “Free-For-All” again.

I end up squeezing into this other kid’s car, a Buick if memory serves, and there’s like six people in this car, me on someone’s lap, and we drive back to the new driver’s hometown, all of which the other passengers are denizens of, and not unlike Dio’s 1990 album, The Last In Line, I’m the last in line. Oh yeah, and it’s pouring by now. A deluge if you will; and if you won’t, who cares? Now I live only three miles away, about a ten-minute drive round trip, but my new driver has already driven thirty minutes or so and apparently that’s his absolute limit. It’s POURING out and this guy tells me he’s not driving me home. The train stops here.
“Are you serious? I only live like three miles away?”
“Nah, I’m not doin’ it.”
Pause. It hangs in the air. He’s serious.
I ask him again and again get denied. I can’t believe it, but HE IS NOT budging, so I say forget it, get out of the car, start walking, and after a mile or less I’m completely soaked—everything: my body, my clothes, my book bag, my books and notebooks, my shoes, my new leather purse. Everything. And I’m also walking on this small grass hill because God forbid there be a sidewalk, and so all I’m trying to do is not slip down it and get killed by a car when GOOSH! a car zooms by a huge puddle and a wave of water nails me. It’s like something out of a movie and I laugh because it’s perfect. And when I finally get home, I take a shower to warm up and stave off pneumonia, and the next day I awake to find I have whiplash, which goes away after a few days.

Whatever. At least it was summer.

"Philosophy of Farful"

Humility is the chlorine in the pool of life—So make sure to check your levels often!

"Marriage"

I almost got married to this really beautiful girl in college, but it turned out she didn't like me and also had a serious boyfriend. But for one precious, fleeting moment I saw us at the altar: I in a camouflage tuxedo, she in traditional female Amish garb, and it was perfect. Perfect.

"Clothes Make the Man"

Once, in my eighteenth year, I applied for a job with a popular convenience store and was accepted into their training program, which took place very far away from the store at which I would presumably be working.[1] The manger of the store then explained to me that there was a dress code—khaki pants and I think a button-down dress shirt; I can’t really remember—that I had to adhere to whilst going through said training.

Fair enough.

But then I showed up to my first day of training wearing off-white khaki pants and was told that I had to go home. Acknowledging my mistake but also finding this extreme strictness over khaki pants fucking ridiculous, I politely asked if I could take part in the first day of training while wearing my unacceptable off-white khaki pants, promising to definitely wear khaki pants the rest of the days. To me, this sounded reasonable; to them, it did not. I was denied and they sent me packing, so put off by their khaki-pants fanaticism, that I bagged the whole idea of working there.

[1] Does anyone else find this as strange as I do? No offense to anyone who has or does work at a convenience store, but is an elaborate training program in a remote place really necessary? Also, if you do take offense, read the rest of the story and I guarantee you you’ll feel vastly superior to me.

"Philosophy of Farful"

Anger is a poisonous fuel that will destroy a man's engine--that engine being his soul.

"File Under: 'Disaster'"

Looking back, it all started with the woman’s son.

I was at my best friend’s fifth birthday party, happily playing with a toy, when BAM! I got clocked and went down like a ton of bricks. Unbeknownst to me, this woman’s son wanted to play with the same toy and felt the best way to handle it was to punch my ass out and take it from me.[1]

Now fast-forward the tape of my life ‘til where I’m twenty-three and we’re ready for round two.

So this kid’s mom owns and runs a filing business that does, amongst nothing else, filing work and, I, twenty-three years old and fully recovered from her son’s beating, have just completed my junior year of college (I’m not dumb or a slacker—I didn’t got to college straight out of high school) and am sorely in need of some summer-time employment. So, bing!, idea, I decide to try working for her and I give her a call.

This is where things get weird.

Somehow, despite the fact that I totally know this woman, having spoken and spent time with her on numerous occasions; that we share a close mutual friend (the family of the kid whose birthday party her son punched me at); and that my older brother worked for her before and she knows my mom and her son, who I went to high school with and hung out with some—we end up getting along all right—knocked me out and that I saw and talked to her days before placing aforementioned call, she has no idea who I am. But, after I explain some of the above connections, she seems to remember me and, voila, I land a four-day filing gig, which is to begin on Wednesday, run through ‘til Friday, at which point we skip the weekend, and end on the following Monday.

Work. Day one. I get picked up and the woman is still a bit hazy on who the hell I am, but again with me throwing out some of our connections, she remembers me—again.

Down to business: I’m the new guy, and being the new guy, I feel it’s imperative to get off on the right foot work-wise and also not to overstep my bounds, so I try and focus intently on my work and I don’t really speak unless spoken to. Overall, the day goes without incident and I feel good about my first day’s performance.

This brings us to: Day two. Again, I work hard, but I decide that I need to chat it up more, bring something to the table talk-wise, you know? So I try and pick my moments, but as I have a tendency (I do it pretty much all the time) I get overly excited and overly talkative—gregarious, if you will—and talk probably too much. There is also a great deal of concern that day about the speed at which we must complete the job and she mentions to me that I need to work faster, and so I try to up the quickness with which I file. Then on the ride home, I, again probably talk too much and it is decided, the possibility having been brought up that day at work, that, because another one of her other jobs is behind, people will need to be shifted to that job, and subsequently my presence will not be required on Friday and that she’ll call me about Monday.

This turn of events strikes me as not good. But I shrug it off. I’ll be back in action Monday, I tell myself. However, as I laid in bed that Saturday night, having not yet heard from her about Monday, I suddenly got frightened and began to wonder if she was greasing me off—by the way, for anyone who doesn’t know what getting greased off means, it’s basically when someone is trying to get rid of you by ceasing any and all contact with you; also don’t feel like you’re out of the loop or not hip or something because you haven’t heard this term, because I totally made it up and no one else except me uses it.

ANYWAY, I again assured myself that she wouldn’t do this, seeing as how it seemed very unprofessional and something even I wouldn’t do, yet by Sunday I still hadn’t heard from her, so I called her to inquire about the details of Monday and that’s when she TKO from Tokyo’d me Piston Honda-style, saying: “You know what, John. Your work was meticulous: absolutely no mistakes. But I’m afraid speed just isn’t your forte.” She then went on to explain that speed had to be one’s forte in the filing business and that, this, meaning me working for her, was not going to work out, which meant, more or less, that I was headed for the welfare line[2].

Crushed, I sat in my kitchen strumming my acoustic guitar as my mom attempted to console me until my younger brother, upon entering and hearing the news, made fun of me, claiming that a monkey could do that job (perhaps, a monkey whose forte was speed) and I sat there, punch-drunk, nothing left to do but laugh at myself, especially at the fact that I had to call her just so I could be given the boot properly.



[1] To his credit, it worked: he got the toy.
[2] I think it’s fair to say that overall I have not done well with this family.

"Philosophy of Farful"

The path to Enlightenment can be a dark one.

"Lights, Camera, Minimum Wage!"

A lot of people take jobs at video stores for the money, the fame, the lifestyle, the parties—But, me, I got into it just for the money.

At the time, I was eighteen years old and in the process of putting together five hundred bucks so I could buy some musical instrument and/or accessory[1], and I already had about half of the money together, but where was I was gonna score the rest? Answer: a gig working at a very large, very popular, and very successful video store chain that rhymes with Glockbuster.

I applied, was interviewed, and landed the job.

Now in case you haven’t been paying attention to the story so far (shame on you!), I wasn’t planning on having what you would call a lasting occupational relationship with my new place of employment—like I said before, I just needed to make the other half of that five hundred bucks—and being the immature idiot I was back then (and still occasionally am now), I had, before even getting hired, put together this clandestine idea—and subsequent clandestine plan—where I figured the following: One, if so inclined, can obtain a job and work it for roughly two weeks—without working hard at all—due to the fact that the first week of the job is more or less the training period—during which your performance can be lackluster and mistake-ridden—because you are, after all, new, and then you have about another week until they, whoever you are working (not very hard) for, finally get fed up with you and fa-fa-fiya yo ass. But by then, it’s been about two weeks, and you have your loot, and you’re in the clear. Seems perfect, right? (Assuming your situation is almost identical what mine was.) But like so many things in life, the perfect plan turned out to be not so perfect, and many things went wrong.

The plus’ of the job: As an employee, you got to rent five movies a week for free, and this kid, who I went to camp with when I was younger and who is a living legend, worked there for, I think, one day that I did, but then was organizing videos and just couldn’t take it anymore and quit very quietly and without incident right then and there. I couldn’t believe this. However, a co-worker, who wasn’t phased by this at all, told me it was no big deal and happened a lot. (By the way, I know that second one was a weird thing to consider a plus.)

The minus’ of the job: They played this TLC music video/promotional ad for something or things round the clock, and it was so annoying that, after about an hour, you wanted to shot yourself in the head. Droves of people would return a video or videos, only to discover that there video or videos were late and they had incurred a late fee, and they would righteously announce how they weren’t going to pay it, and then I would explain to them that, because we had their credit card on file, they most definitely were going to pay it, and then they would get even more angry and ask to see the manager, and sometimes he was there, but sometimes not, so sometimes they got the assistant manager, who told them the same thing the manager would of told them, which was the same thing I had told them in the first place—we had their credit card on file: they were paying the late fees. End of story. And then they would still be all huffy-puffy and go off about how they were never going to rent movies from us again. But then, after like three weeks usually, they would be back, sheepishly renting whatever movie was popular at the time[2].—And another thing: Why would they get all mad at me? I mean, it wasn’t like the late fee money was going in my pocket. I was making like six-fifty an hour, for crying out loud. I couldn’t have cared less. In fact, as far as I was concerned, people were free to loot the store.

Getting back on track.

Duuude, this job was seriously hard. It was like the hardest job I’ve ever haaaad[3].
Now, to Glockbuster’s credit, they ran a very tight ship—but sadly, I was on this ship and not really down for all this tightness[4]. Check this out: At the end of the night shift (which I worked at least a couple of times), we had to go through every movie on every shelf and make sure they were all lined up perfectly. That still haunts me.

Okay, every story has an ending—even that movie, The Never-ending Story, and its two sequels.

I missed a day of work.

Honestly, I can’t remember why I missed it—I think it was just an honest mistake—but that led my boss to call me, and rightly so, be very angry with me and demand that I come in on a day I wasn’t previously scheduled to work, which would have been fine if this particular day hadn’t happened to coincide with my older brother’s graduation from college.

Quite the pickle.

To the point: He told me if I didn’t show up that day, I was finished at Glockbuster and I told him I probably wasn’t going to make it. He said you either show up or your fired. I responded, well, if I’m there I guess I still have a job, and if not, I don’t.

I went to my brother’s graduation. I had to. It was a big day, a major achievement.

Career at Glockbuster: Finito.

In the end I didn’t make all the money I set out to, but I got close enough to buy whatever I wanted to buy; my friend, Matt Mazzoni, who worked at another Glockbuster, heard about my not showing for work and my quitting/getting fired and ripped on me about it; and lastly, they never asked for the shirt back and I kept it. However, since I didn’t work there anymore, I had no place to where it. What can ya do, ya know? Ya know?

[5].


[1] For the life of me, I can’t recall at all what it is that I wanted.
[2] You can’t beat the late fees at Glockbuster. Ya just can’t.
[3] Good thing I wasn’t planning on staying more than two weeks. Maybe my perfect plan really did have something to it.
[4] Again, good thing this job was basically a scam.
[5] Who am I, Chuck Klosterman?

"Philosophy of Farful"

A healthy spirit is much like a healthy tree: firmly rooted in the rich soil of positive thinking.

"Workin' Man"

When I was nineteen years old, in a controversial move, I got a job while on vacation. My entire family was enjoying a little R & R in Avalon, New Jersey for two weeks and I was so bored—it’s nice but the only things to really do there are to go to the beach (which I don’t like), ride bikes?!?, and play miniature golf. (By the way, why do people get so excited about playing miniature golf while on vacation? I mean, no one seems to give a crap about this activity in any other circumstance.)

Anyway, it was a bold and controversial move, made even bolder and more controversial by the fact that I was not exactly prone to working while not on vacation.

And this brings us to my first day of work.

The aforementioned job was at a gas station and I was not particularly excited, or particularly motivated, by the job or the work involved—to tell you the truth, I really just wanted the shirt all the employees got (the gas station attendant shirt was quite chic at the time and I wanted one enough to take a job at a gas station just to get one).

My first day of work started off innocently enough with me being taught the ropes and getting right into the task of filling up gas tanks, squeegeeing windshields, and hoping no one asked me to check their oil, because even though someone had shown me how to do it, I still wasn’t anywhere near confident in my abilities in that department, which is a nice way of saying I had absolutely no idea (even to this day) how to do it.

So there we were, a team of gas station employees, a bonded unit, a finely-oiled machine, working hard, like dogs, toiling under the strain of the oppressive and unrelenting heat of the summer sun at this honest—but let’s be truthful—fairly crappy, job, scampering about and giving it all we had, as we pushed ourselves to the max, leaving it all on the mat—all except for me. Sure, I was doing my “job,” and doing it well enough, but something was amiss to me. I saw something the others did, nay, perhaps could not see: this gas station, our gas station, was the only one on the whole fucking island! (By the way, Avalon’s an island, which I feel is a fact I should of introduced earlier, but whatever, the thing’s an island; one small step away from an archipelago—surrounded by water on three sides, not four). Now this may seem like a totally innocuous fact to you because—like the people I was working with—you’re not as smart as me, but what they (and you) did/do not understand is that we had a monopoly going. So why in Sam Hill were we working so fast and so hard? Where were these people gonna go? I’ll tell ya, sister: NOwhere. And being the nice guy that I am, I graciously shared this information with my fellow employees, who responded in turn by telling me that I’d better shut up and not let the manager hear what I was saying because he already thought I was a slacker. I retorted by saying not to worry, dear friends, that the guy was a pussycat, and that my revolutionary idea (that is, to work slower and with less effort) was in their best interest (which it actually was—I was trying to make their jobs easier.) But some people just have to look a gift horse in the mouth; some people just have to have it the hard way. So I cooled it out for the rest of my shift, and when it was over, discussed with the manager when I would work next, and then started home.

But something happened along the way: I put my hands in my pockets, as I sometimes do when strolling to and fro places, and felt something: a wad of cash. I pulled it out of my pocket and stared at it. Okay, freeze frame on that image. Now let’s zip back through time, super-fast, like in a movie, to the beginning of my shift, and let’s angle on the part where I’m given a wad of cash with which I am to make change with while I work. Okay, now let’s zip back, again, super-fast, to me standing there with the wad of cash in my hand. Unfreeze me and I’m standing there, the realization of the situation having sunken in, and I’m trying to decide what to do: I could take the money, skip town, buy an inexpensive, prob’ly used mountain bike, or do the right thing and take the money back.

So what did I do: I decided to be honest Abe and I took the money back and got totally fired.
BAM! after only one shift, too. The manager basically said he thought I sucked and that I was a slacker, and I also think he had heard about my idea to work slower and with less gumption, and forgetting to hand back the money was the straw that got my ass fired. He stood there, thinking he had delivered the death blow, that he had absolutely crushed my soul—but he couldn’t have been wronger (not a word); I couldn’t have cared less (I mean, I already got the shirt, folks). Honestly, what the hell was this guy thinking? That this job was in any way long term? That I was gonna try and work my way up, climb the ladder of success at this joint until I was assistant manager, possibly even manager, dethroning him? I was on vacation, for Pete’s sake! I was gonna leave the job in two weeks max, no matter what.

But still I was a tad stung by his and the gas station’s rejection of me and my ways, and so I vowed to get another crappy job the very next day. I landed a position at Dairy Queen, where I washed dishes for twenty minutes and then felt really anxious and like I had to get back home (where I’m from) right away, so I told the manager and she somehow totally understood. ?!?.

I went back to the house, told the family I was out, packed up my stuff, and hit the road.

"You're Gonna Die, and I'm Gonna Kill You"

Fresh out of college, I shot for the stars and landed a position at an ice cream store near my house[1]. Now before some of you reading this (you know who you are) race to judgment, pinning me as one of those no-good directionless waste-of-space slackers who deserves to be shot in the head, I had a “real” full-time job lined up for the fall—and on top of that, it was a volunteer position, meaning I was going to be working forty to sixty hours a week, for next to nothing, as I struggled to re-instill hope and goodness to the world, while I simultaneously saved it—and its inhabitants—from whatever doom and gloom that might be permeating the universe at that time. HOWEVER, conversely, before ANY of you judge me as this great altruistic has-it-together saint who also isn’t a total moron a good deal of the time, hang out with me for like two or three days or just read the rest of the story.

Back to the story.

So the job was just supposed to be a summer gig to keep me busy and help me make a couple bucks at the same time.

Now cut to: Me, as I start the job. The training I receive is quick and horribly insufficient, and we’re off to the races as I meet my fellow employees, learn the basics, and then rapidly descend into the living hell known as working at this joint.

Let’s go to the highlight reel, shall we?

Clip #1: One of my co-workers, Ivan, who is a really cool guy, calls me on my cell phone (I should have never given it out on the application) while I’m not working and asks me to go the supermarket (again, while I’m not working) so that I might pick up some honey and lemon juice for the store with my own money (he promised that I’d be reimbursed and I was) so that I can bring in aforementioned items the next time I’m scheduled to work—and I actually do it! (Also, looking back, I wasn’t scheduled to work until at least the next day, so could it really have been a matter so urgent that I had to do it when I wasn’t working? I’m gonna lean toward “no.”)

Clip #2: This girl, who is seventeen, psychotic, and also one of the store’s assistant managers, grabs me in the middle of a shift while it’s busy and hectic and I’m serving up water ice, and whispers in my ear “You’re gonna die, and I’m gonna kill you” for no apparent reason whatsoever, except—maybe—she thinks this is funny?!?

Clip #3: I move to working only the night shift—which has no dinner break so I end up eating ice cream, chocolate chip cookies, and soda for dinner every night—and also, once we’re closed, begin to frequently take my tip money down to a bar that’s about two blocks away, where I use it to drown my workaday sorrows before I stumble home.

Clip #4: With an I-don’t-really-care-anymore attitude brought on by working at the place, I often deliver the following two lines in the following two situations, which, at this job, pop up a lot: When somebody asks me what’s in certain cookies and I don’t know the answer because I haven’t been able memorize it yet, I reply “Well, the main ingredient is deliciousness” (by the way, everyone loved this line. It was gold.) and when a customer is debating about whether or not to get the medium-size whatever or the large, I respond “Everybody dies. Just go for it.”

Clip #5: An older woman who works there, and who is awesome and my only real friend at the place, invites me repeatedly to karaoke night at a local bar and I go, but it’s karaoke night at a bar and the whole situation is awkward for me so I stay for a while, then split.

Clip # 6: My younger brother picks me up to give me a ride home one night and we give one of my fellow employees a ride home and she scares my younger brother to death, scarring him, in the five minutes it takes to drop her off.

Clip # 7: This other employee of mine starts taking me off shifts, of his own accord and without mentioning it to me or anyone else, to better suit his schedule.

Clip # 8: It becomes widely rumored amongst the employees, my family and friends, and perhaps even some random people in town, that I am going to be fired—or possibly already am fired—and everyone—even my three-year-old nephew—makes fun of me, and so with the threat of possibly getting canned looming over me, I dream up this fantasy that I will never carry out where, after getting the axe, I go out, work hard, save up money, and then open an ice cream store right across the street, which is so awesome that it puts them out of business.

Clip #9: After a night of work and subsequent boozing to deal with that night of work that includes someone grabbing me by the neck and threatening me with further and more severe violence (with kind of good reason—it was a misunderstanding) and a group of girls making fun of me because of a Warrant T-shirt[2] I’m wearing, I, broken, distraught, and in absolute shambles—the job driving me into alcoholism, take a long walk (I’m dead serious. It was like over an hour long and I stared out at vistas and everything) to take stock and try and make sense of it all, my whole world falling apart around me, and it is then that I decide to quit the job—especially before I get fired.

Clip #10: Angry, hurt, and nearly defeated, it seems only right to me that I go out in a blaze of glory where I yell at and viscously insult the manager of the store, who I now hold chiefly responsible for all that has happened, but my mom talks me out of it (she was right), convincing me that I need to do the adult and upstanding thing, which is to speak to the manager and tell him the job just isn’t working out. One hitch: the guy is almost never actually at the store so even quitting is a hassle because I keep trying to catch him but keep missing him but then finally catch him, and it is then that I quietly and respectfully tender my resignation, often to return to the store as a customer—their ice cream and cookies are that good.

[3].


[1] It’s worth noting that I had taken a job at this exact same store like five years ago, worked there for about a week, and then quit because it sucked so hard. And it’s prob’ly also worth noting that, applying for and took the same job again, is most probably a sign of severe mental illness.

[2] Warrant is an awesome band and I have no doubt that by making fun of me, and my Warrant T-shirt, those girls have firmly secured for themselves a place in hell.

[3] I know the footnote thing is totally ripped from Chuck Klosterman.

"Headlining"

Fred and I snagged Skull Fracture a basement show with Uncouth Youth and Herb Bermann’s Side Project. We were scheduled to go on third, which in our heads made us feel like we were the headlining band, but there was a noise complaint and the cops shut us down. My mom tried to talk the cops into letting us play our set and almost got arrested. Finally, the fuzz left, and as we were loading up our gear, my mom came flying out of the house with a toaster, chucked it on the lawn, and said, “We better get outa here!” Our first gig.

"There Are Only Five Great Men in the World and Three of Them Are Hamburgers"

"You know, when someone holds the door for someone else, they usually say 'thank you.'" "Exactly! Usually."

"A Decision Has Been Made"

Skull Fracture just isn’t the name of a doo-wop band. It’s that simple.

"Skull Fracture Update"

The only thing “messed-up” about my mom’s Halloween song is how bad it is. After hearing it, Fred panicked and suggested we become a doo-wop group. I slapped him and told him we’d think about it.

"My New Musical Venture"

My mom and I have started a thrash metal band called Skull Fracture. Now it’s a little known fact that Candy Farful is an accomplished harpist, and thanks to a fairly recent mid-life crisis, a force to be reckoned with on the drums. I’m on guitar and vocals and my twelve-year-old neighbor, Fred, is on bass; he’s only been playing for six months, but he’s got the right attitude. My mom got drunk this past weekend and wrote our first song, “Live Fast and Die Stupid.” It’s good. She plans on getting trashed again this weekend and writing something quote “messed-up” about Halloween. Rock on, mom!

"Diary of an Angry, Misunderstood Fifteen-Year-Old"

Rebecca broke up with me. I'm failing math. All I have are my Metallica records. I listen to "Fade to Black" as it rains in my soul.

"The Prowl?"

This past Friday, my mother had a dinner party. I came home from work all haggard and joined right in. This one guy asked me where I worked. I told ‘em. He asked me if I liked it. I told him it sucks. Then he asked me how the ladies were treating me. It was awkward and I got bored trying to think of a funny answer, so I said “Not well enough” and felt like an idiot. “You’re on the prowl,” he said. “I’m really just lonely and desperate. Or is that ‘the prowl’?”

"A True Story"

A couple years ago, I was visited by space aliens. They invited me onto their ship and off we went.

On their ship, they had a movie theater—a giant one—that was also an arcade and a roller rink.

The movie we saw was deplorable and we left less than half way through; it was a tedious examination of apathy gone horribly wrong—or something like that.

As we were leaving the theater, one of the space aliens was apologizing for the movie—he spoke fluent English—and I told him not to worry, but it really burned me: I didn’t get woken up in the middle of the night to get on some awesome space ship only to see some crappy movie. They should’ve seen the movie beforehand to make sure it was good. What a letdown.

"A Little Piece of Advice"

Never—NEVER!—trust a man in a cowboy hat. It’s just bad business, dude.

"My Dream Woman"

My dream woman is a complicated and dangerous individual—somewhere between good clean fun and a bad haircut. My dream woman smells like chlorine, is unpredictably violent, a lover of the arts, and an avid badminton player. She also speaks Chinese. My dream woman fancies herself an intellectual, but in all actuality despises herself and the knowledge that possesses her. She has no table manners to speak of and is crude and uncouth almost on purpose. My dream woman fears gingerbread. In my mind’s eye, my dream woman will be the undoing of me. She will set fire to all my institutions. She will laugh and watch daytime television as she scorches the landscape of my soul. Such is my dream woman.

"My New Year's Resolution"

My New Year’s resolution for 2008 is to build a trash can that can race me to my dumpster. Also, while we’re on the subject of 2008, the machines have yet to become self-aware and try to destroy us, there are no flying cars, and as far as I know, we are nowhere near a working prototype—maybe not even a non-working prototype.

"Diary of an Angry, Misunderstood Fifteen-Year-Old"

"Diary of an Angry, Misunderstood Fifteen-Year-Old"

No one gets me—not even my girlfriend. I hate my parents: Their idea of a curfew is eleven o’clock?! I went to the mall today and felt nothing.

The Story of Doug Douglassin

Doug Douglassin ran away from home when he was 35 and joined the Visa Rewards Program. The end.

"Rapunzel, Rapunzel, Let Down Your Long Hair!"

For a few years now, it's been a goal of mine (sooner, rather than later) to make a Grammy award-winning sitar album called "Marc Farful's Wild Sitar." However, of late, I've been flip-flopping between thinking that the idea is either too eccentric or awesome.

Anyway, if I ever make it, this will be the tracklisting:

1. Firewalk
2. Medicine Man
3. Fever Dream
4. The Labyrinth
5. Dream Warrior
6. Windmaker
7. Manchild
8. Get off My Land, White Man!
9. The Sufferer
10. Alien Underneath My Bed
11. Indian Giver (Don't Give To Get)
12. Indigenous

Dear Dan,

How sad it is: You’ve become a caricature of your old “new” self. I can recall a time when you rode your motorcycle around town. Do you even still have your jean jacket? Forget it. I don’t even wanna know. What happened? How did we get here? I’ve been gassing-up my car and going for long drives back on the empty streets of Glendyn, lost. I . . . I just don’t know anymore.

At the end of my rope with it all,

Kelly

Dear World,

If I ever had a step, I’ve lost it—matter of fact, I’ve lost more than a step, putting me somewhere in negative-step land.

This is how I see it going down: Tops, I’ve got two- to-three good years left in me. Then my slow but sure decline commences. Thirty-two to thirty-eight, I’m punch-drunk from the mental and emotional beating I’ve taken from life over the years and then I don’t even know who or where I am anymore.

"Looking Out for a Friend"

Today, at four in the morning, I called Charles because I know he's been looking for a typing teacher and I heard about this woman, Mavis Beacon, who teaches typing.

Dear Chris

Subject: Postcard from Hell

Dear Chris,

This past Saturday I played my first gig with KMX Musica. It was a lot of fun. The leader of the band, (I think he and I are the only two members, at least at this moment, although there might have been other members before) is Kevin McKeon, a.k.a Rainbow, a.k.a The Ghost of Christmas Past. Since it's just he and I, what he does is record backing tracks -- bass, drums, keyboard, and samples -- on his iPod and plays guitar and sings the lyrics along with it all. Actually, the iPod is considered a member of the band. I believe his name is Vanilla Jones, or something like that. There's a story behind the name, but I can't remember it. But how he does it all, it's very impressive, and his songs are really good. I think he's a musical genius.

Anyway, I can't remember who came up with the idea, but we decided that I would pretend to play keyboard, even though my Casio Concermate 670 would not be plugged in -- Oh, and he decided to dress metal and so I, since I don't have any of my old metal T-shirts, decided to go for the opposite and wear khaki pants, a button-down polo shirt, a tie, and a navy-blue blazer. I wanted to look like a kid (a late-twenties kid) who just got out of prep school for the day, or like I was about to go, or just came back from, a semi-formal high school dance. I was successful.

Now, my stage name was Marc Farfal and I did my darndest to appear as though I was playing the keyboard as if it was plugged in. Some people commented during the show that they couldn't hear Farfal, so we turned up the iPod and made the amp on my side louder. One guy, who's cool, was pretty sure that I was faking it, but he waited to tell me this after the show. To my credit, I did scream along with Kevin on one of his songs and then switched to a falsetto opera attempt at a harmony. And, during his guitar solos, I took out a calculator -- I believe it’s scientific, although I forget what constitutes a scientific calculator -- and pushed buttons, the idea being that I was calculating the awesomeness of his solo.

Getting back to the gig, it was planned that about three quarters of the way through the show, Mckeon would catch me and expose me and then we would have a war of words over it. He kicked me out of the band for a few songs then let me back in. Man, oh man, it was a hoot and some people dug it.

Enough about me, how's Europe? Are you still listening to all that sitar music? I hope so.

Sincerely,

Kentucky Fried Chicken

P.S. I hate to put people down, but I saw this terrible silent film on TV last night. Just terrible.

The Perfect Crime

A telephone conversation:
“Hey, did you drink the last of my soda?”
Jerry laughs. “What?”
“Did you drink the last of my soda? Yes or no?”
“Dude, I live in another state.”
“I know. That’s what makes it the perfect crime, Jerry.”

"To All Kind Enough To Read"

I was recently thrown from my horse (we're not friends anymore) and suffered a minor concussion. Not to worry, the doctor assured me I'd be as dumb as before. Phew! What a relief! Now, I can't remember the chronological order of the following events, but not too long ago, I was at a bar with Charles, and, sober and wholeheartedly believing it to be nothing more than good clean fun, ran into the wall. I was promptly placed in a full-nelson--finally!--by one of the bouncers and escorted out of the bar. I felt bad and apologized to the bouncer that checks ID's, but I don't think he cared one way or the other. Whatever. Upon reflection, I realized that it was improper behavior and that my expulsion from the bar was well-warranted. This other weekend night, again not too long ago, I hit the streets of Manayunk with my guitar, harmonica, and the determination to raise 50 bucks for this guy I met, like, two nights before who needs money to finish a film that shows the horrible situation in Uganda right now. I got dissed some--actually, kind of a lot--but persevered and raised the money.

Once more, on a weekend night, not too long ago, I thought it be cool to go to a local bar alone, have a drink or two, then play blues harmonica. Although, very sober, one of the bartenders cut me off right then and there. I can see how he saw this behavior to be that of a drunk person, but at the same time, I was completely lucid, showing no signs--no signs in my book--of drunkeness. If it had been my call, I would of thought it was awesome, but I think he really should of just asked me to take my business elsewhere.

It's weird that I hardly ever play guitar anymore, because, for several years, it was a dominating force in my life.

When I got rejected from Yale, I wrote them a rejection letter rejecting their rejection letter. People thought (some still do) that it was clever and rad, and that I was going to get accepted because, I guess, it demonstrated out-of-the-box thinking. I knew nothing would come of it, as was the case. Anyway, yesterday, my mom (she wears scarves a lot) asked me to make a copy of it because there's a kid she knows (she really knows the mother, I think) from church who really, really wants to get into Yale and is on the waiting list and she thought it would give him a chuckle. Even though I've never met him and know very little of him, I think he'll get in; I've got a good feeling about the kid, ya know? Then I suggested to my mom (she wears scarves a lot) that if he gets denied, he should mail himself to the Dean's office and then pop out and see if the Dean will reconsider.

Sincerely,

The Guy Who Wrote This

"My Last Will and Testament"

I wanna be buried ancient Egyptian-style—sans the whole mummification part, though. So straight up, nobody gets any of my good stuff. You can fight over the rest if you want.

Peace,

Marc Farful

"Subject: Marc Farful"

Subject: Marc Farful

Hey Laurie,

Just seeing what's up and how things are. I was gonna try and call ya. When's the best time and can I call your cell or only that number you put in that past e-mail?

Seasons Greetings,

Marc

Subject: Re: Marc Farful

MARC!!! So nice to hear from you, your email made me laugh, I needed it! Have I ever told you that I really appreciate your humor :) Our internet has been down all week so please do not think that I have been ignoring you. I do not have a cell phone here, it is just that 215 # that I gave out. I would love to chat with you. I am hoping to get another mass email out soon. This week has been tough and crazy for me. How is life in New Jersey? I miss you! Take care, and always STAY STREET!

Love Always,

Laurie

P.S Did you think I wouldn’t know who you are from your subject?

* I wish you enough *

Subject: Re: Re: Marc Farful

Laurie,

Glad the e-mail made you laugh. And as far as whether or not you've ever told me that you appreciate my sense of humor, I really feel like that's something you should remember yourself. I know that you have, but if you can't remember perhaps you've had a recent head trauma that has, and still is, affecting your memory. I would recommend seeing a doctor, because if you're memory has been compromised there's a good chance you don't even the recall the accident -- actually you might not even remember this e-mail, thusly not remembering my advice to seek the aid of physician, in which case you're like the guy from "Memento" and you're screwed. Now I know you might not remember any of the rest of this as well, but don't worry that your e-mail has been down or that I might have thought that you were ignoring me, because I did not think that at all. Also, I can appreciate the fact that you've had a tough and crazy week -- actually again, did you really have a tough and crazy week, or are you seriously like the guy from "Memento" and that's just how you remember it?

Moving on, I have noted that you can, at the present time, only be reached at the 215 number. If you still remember me when I try to call you, I would also love to have a chat where you remember me and our relationship. And to answer your question about how things are in New Jersey, they are pretty much all right slash semi-haggard. Kind of an up and down thing -- but, ha!, is that not life, dear Laurie!

Marc Farful

P.S. I will stay street if I can -- however, most likely not always in all capitals like the way you typed it --because that's where I'm comin' from. What, what?

P.P.S In response to your own P.P.S, I'm once again not sure if you forgot who I was from my heading. Plus, you put a question mark after your question, which I don't feel is a good sign at all. And now, yes, it was also followed by an exclamation point, which could be encouraging but could at the same time mean a number of things. Lastly, while you wish me enough, I wish you enough with what could be a serious memory problem.

List of Possible Avenues You Could Explore After You Graduate From College

• You could start your own hired-assassin business and put the “V” back in violence.
  
• Or, if you’re not into the whole killing-people-for-money scene, you could start a door-to-door lemonade stand, or open a restaurant with no chairs, just hammocks and tables.
  
• You could also start a medieval scribe messenger service, where all the messengers would be dressed up as medieval scribes and skip along while carrying messages written on rolled-up pieces of papyrus as they play the flute. The messages would of course be written in calligraphy with quill pens and read aloud in mock old English. And if you don’t want the flute, you can request a piccolo, but that costs extra.
  
• Then there’s always the option of creating a prison-themed restaurant called “The Pen.” Modeled after a composite of famous prison cafeterias from all over the country, “The Pen” would replicate in every detail what it’s like to chew down slop in the big house, right down to the leering eyes of the guards who are just waiting to blast you with their twelve gauge shotguns. Now when you first arrive at “The Pen,” you will be stripped of your street clothes, issued a uniform and number, shackled, and forced to shuffle through line being careful not to make eye contact with the dangerous men in hairnets serving you borderline inedible food. And instead of a maitre d’ there will be a soulless warden; a piece of advice: unless you’re looking to get thrown into solitary, don’t dare ask for a menu: just like in the state or county pen, there are no menus at “The Pen.” Oh, and every so often, a random diner would get “shanked,” because it’s all part of the experience.
  
• You could hit the road with a covered wagon and do the Oregon Trail. Your biggest decisions will be deciding whether or not to pay for the ferry or ford the river—clearly risking your oxen, fellow party members, and supplies—and whether or not to stop when someone inevitably gets a snake bite.
  
• Or if you don’t wanna travel, if you just wanna stay at home, you could write a biography on Ralph Macchio entitled: Paint the Fence: The Ralph Macchio Story, or your very own book on public speaking entitled: Just Picture Them In Their Underwear: Insert Your Name Here’s Guide To Public Speaking.
  
• You could become both the originator and central pioneer of “pirate rock” by forming a pirate rock band called Occupation: Pirate. All the members of your band will have the names of different positions on a ship: they’ll be the captain, the first mate, the cabin boy, et cetera, and your first album will be titled Land ho! and your first single, “Walking the Plank.” Other song titles will include: “Swabbin’ the Deck,” A Plundering We Will Go,” “Sea Legs,” and “Shiver Me Timbers.” Oh—and this is the clincher—every album will come with a free collectible eye patch. Arrrr! With this idea you’ll surely be setting sail for success.
  You could decide to run for president.—You can’t actually even run until you’re thirty-five, so that gives you about thirteen years to just hang out and get your platform, and vice-president and cabinet, and financial backing together.
  
• You could work the fields and till the soil of our earth with the quiet dignity of a peasant.
  
• There’s also the possibility of traveling the country performing impromptu hit sticks drum solos. Remember those things?
  
• Or you could be a warrior poet, or the guy back in medieval times who tasted the king’s food to make sure it hadn’t been poisoned, or a carpetbagger, or a mercantilist, or a muckraker—yellow journalism.
  
• Or if none of these possibilities I’ve listed work for you, you could, in a very controversial move, decide to retire before you even start working. It’s brilliant! You could move into a retirement home in Florida. Switch from Centrum to Centrum silver. Begin to have your “good” days and your “bad” days. Take to walking around with a walker and gab with the other old-timers about the “good old days” and how you don’t understand these kids today with their rock and roll and their MTV. The younger staff members would ask you to regale them with tales from your youth; to tell them of simpler times since past. You could begin to liken your daily experience to an old senile man or woman in a supermarket, who, every time he or she picks something new from the shelf mischievous kids steal all the items from your cart. And like a modern-day Sisyphus, you never get the boulder up the mountain; you never get out of the supermarket.

"Crucial Scene from 'Handsome Magazine'"

“I don’t care, all right! I don’t care about my looks anymore.”
“God, I never thought I’d hear those words come outa your mouth.”
“Yeah, well, times have changed.”
“They sure have: I can remember a time when being handsome meant something to you.”

Questions and Answers on the Subject of Being a Thugged-out Gangsta

Q: Is Inglewood really always up to no good?
A: No.

Q: How can you avoid getting caught up in the rap game?
A: Keep it real.

Q: Is it ever good form to be “straight trippin’”?
A: Rarely, and you have to be extremely charming to pull it off.

Q: I’m thinking about getting hydraulics on my mom’s mini-van. Good idea? Bad idea?
A: Bad idea.

Q: Is the line “you better chiggity check yourself before you wriggity wreck yourself” still a good line to use, or is it played out?
A: Some will hate on this line nowadays, while others won’t. It’s a crapshoot, Mary Poppins.

Q: If two loced out g’s goin’ crazy step to you and try and start some static, what’s the best way to handle that particular situation? And can we game play it from a situation where I’m packing and one where I’m not strapped?
A: More than anything, you have to think about your street cred here. Now if you’re packing heat, pull out your strap and lay them bustas down. However, if you’re not, front like you are and hope for the best. Maybe you can get out of there before the jackers jack.

Q: Do you really never get to lay back because you always haf to worry about the payback from some buck that you roughed up way back?
A: Yes. It’s exhausting, but you do.

Q: Technically speaking, how many people constitute a “posse”? And while we’re on the subject, what’s the difference between a “posse” and a “gang”? And lastly, is rolling eight deep enough? Or should one always roll at least nine deep?
A: There really are no hard-and-fast rules. Although, posse’s, traditionally, are smaller and have been known to ride on horses (like in the old West) at times—which is something I don’t think a gang has ever (or will ever) do. And eight deep is good, depth-wise. Yet the more, the better, usually. HOWEVER, please, don’t make the mistake of letting some really annoying guy in just to get your numbers up because, trust me, he will ruin it for everyone else.

Q: Where can I get some of that New Jack Flavor? New York, right?
A: Right. Also, Ice-T has a ton.

Q: How do I know if a song is “my jam”?
A: Don’t think about it. Just let it happen. (By the way, Craig Morrison’s “Return of the Mack” and Montell Jordan’s “This Is How We Do It” are already taken. Sorry.)

Q: Did the people in the Midwest feel left out of the whole East coast-West coast thing?
A: No. Not really.

Q: Is there a good how-to (like maybe an Idiot’s Guide or something) on how to spit fire when up on the mic?
A: There are a few good titles out right now. Try your local Borders or Barnes & Noble.

Q: If you have the most juice on your block, you should just be rollin’ on people. Right?
A: Yes! Drop the hammer on those fools, my friend.

Q: Yesterday, while driving to work, this guy in a Toyota Camry cut me off. Should I bust a cap in him? Or is that too much? Should I just jack him up?
A: He cut you off! Ice that chump. What, what? Jigga, jigga.

Q: I tried to regulate for the first time a few weeks ago, and it did not go well to say the least. Should I keep this on the down-low and then try again? Or should I pack it in and give up?
A: Keep trying, for Pete’s sake. Practice makes perfect. Do you think Nate Dogg regulated on his first try? I know him. He didn’t.

Q: Flossin. What exactly is that?
A: If you have to ask, you’ll never know.

Q: After I form a posse, how will I know when it’s in full effect?
A: Don’t worry. It’s like meeting the right guy or girl: You’ll just know.

Q: What’s a cool line to use after I drop someone?
A: I usually use Kool Mo Dee’s line: “How ya like me now?”

Q: I wanna start rockin’ some serious Bling-bling. I wanna be wearing so much ice that people next to me catch cold! The only problem is that I don’t have any and don’t have any money. My mom has jewelry. Should I just wear that?
A: If you’re in the market for a serious beat down, then, yes, by all means, do so.

Professional Wrestler's Resume

Jake “The Snake” Roberts
thesnake@hotmail.com
Home address: 34 Carmel Drive, San Berdinas, CA 190045, 310-555-5150

OBJECTIVE: To obtain a position in marketing.

EDUCATION: Burt Misham School of Wrestling, San Berdinas, CA
Bachelor of Arts: Wrestling
Minor: Russian literature
Major GPA: 3.6 Overall GPA: 3.2
Scholarship Recipient
Coursework includes: Creating over-the-top personas, Taunting would-be opponents, Finishing moves, Choosing cool entrance music, Women’s literature, and flexing muscles almost all the time no matter what.
Also cultivated extremely tight and lasting relationship with killer python.

San Berdinas High School, San Berdinas, CA
National Honor Society
Editor-in-chief of Yearbook
Forensics
Band (Oboe)

RELATED
EXPERIENCE:· Successfully marketed self-created persona that fooled males ages 8-12 into thinking I, and everything I was doing, was real.
· Planned and executed elaborate stage show involving an awesome snake that I kept in a bag until I had defeated my opponent, at which point I would lay it on top of him.
· Did extensive data entry and filing work.
· Came up with “the snake” (which rhymes) part of my wrestling name all by myself.

SKILLS:
· Excel, Pile driving, PowerPoint, The Suplex, Coming hard off the ropes, Microsoft Office, The part where I lay the snake on the guy after I’ve beat him.

REFERENCES:· Ravishing Rick Rude, The Bushwackers, Koko B. Ware, The Ultimate Warrior, Bam Bam Bigelow, Jimmy “Superfly” Snuka, Mr. Perfect, Hacksaw Jim Dugan (HOOOOOOOOO!) and “The Million Dollar Man” Ted Dibiase.