Everyone knows the easy rules that Wes Craven has taught us, along with the classics like: don’t shower when people in your neighborhood are getting killed randomly, don’t go to the place that everyone says is haunted to have sex, and definitely make sure you completely destroy the guy that’s been shot 16 times by the police while chasing you because hitting him once in the head with a baseball bat probably won’t stop him; he’s playing possum and when you sigh, put your arm around your blood-covered girlfriend that just ‘saved your life’ and say “whoo, that’s over, now let’s go get Tommy and Susan” you’re going to find that Tommy and Susan are already dead and then when you go back to find the killer’s body it’s not going to be there, plus you should know that normally only one protagonist lives (if that) and it will probably be the girl and you also just added another 20 minutes to the movie when we all have places to be.

1. Don’t lean against doors, walls, or windows.

Reasoning: zombies love to break through windows and while one or two zombies are never a problem, a parade can be troublesome. See also: monster, demons, robots, and deadites can/will break through walls and doors. In many cases all it takes is a scratch and you go from someone’s girlfriend to “That’s not your girlfriend anymore, man! Pull the trigger!”

2. Don’t try to hide from psycho-killers.

Reasoning: psycho-killers are psychic/psychological-masterminds. If you finally lose him and slow down to catch your breath then decide that hiding in this one specific car in a used car lot of hundreds is a good idea you’re wrong. He’s in the back seat because he knew your favorite color was baby-blue and unconsciously you would choose it.

This is one of those things that always happens in bad slasher movies, along side what I call ‘the outsmart-outsmart’ which is where you come up with a really clever idea that for ALL intents and purposes should completely kill the killer, however he assumes, without any actual knowledge except for a PHD in psychology, that you have figured him out and so he tricks your trick.
The best example of this comes from The Collector (SPOILER ALERT):
Where one of the characters decides to electrocute ‘the collector’ by spilling water all over the floor (from a fishtank) right as he comes in through the door where several appliances have been broken (I think….well…something stupid is creating the electricity) but when he comes in, instead he throws a body onto the floor and electrocutes this other dude then steps on him…because he’s fucking psychic.
Realistically, this rule isn’t something you should concern yourself with if you’re in a ‘horror movie situation’ like….when the black dude with you says: “Man, that’s some Freddy-Krueger shit right there,” but more for when you’re LITERALLY in a horror movie. (Which could only happen in some strange form of the 1992 Comedy-Adventure “Stay Tuned.”)

3. Don’t try to understand why your television is powering itself.

Reasoning: It’s fucking haunted, throw it out the window. The more time you spend tracing the cord that you ALREADY KNOW you unplugged, the more time you give whatever weird-shit-ghost-demon to come through the screen or print out some creepy-ass picture or whatever. Chunk it, there’s a Wal-Mart down the street.

4. TO THE LADIES: If your boyfriend/husband/ex-fiancé says ‘it’s time to leave’ it’s time to fucking leave.

Reasoning: This one is probably my most realistic fear in horror movie situations. You break down and have a weird vibe about the family that’s offering to fix your car out in the middle of nowhere because they’re deformed and have a grandpa that’s in a wheelchair and is older than God, but they offer to cook you and your girlfriend dinner. You have to run to the bathroom to wash your hands and on your way you walk past a hallway where a dude is hanging from hooks, naked and bleeding everywhere, in fact, it’s the friend you lost earlier when your car mysteriously got four flat tires. He tells you to leave him and to run, but you try to save him and can’t. You forget to wash your hands and go back to the table.
Now, ladies, we KNOW we just had a fight and we KNOW that you think putting us in this weird situation will teach us a lesson but when we come back from the bathroom and go, “Hey, baby, I totally just remembered we were supposed to be at your parent’s house just two miles up the road and it’s not even dark yet and we haven’t called them so we can probably just walk up there.”
Don’t say: “But, Bobby, these people have already set the table for us.”
We will leave you.
Just ask my girlfriend how serious I am about this one; we’ve discussed it multiple times.

5. Your friend that you’ve known your entire life didn’t go crazy over night

Reasoning: This goes along the lines of number 2, but when your best friend that you haven’t seen since childhood comes back to your small town and starts a sentence with “You’ve got to believe me, I know you’re the only one that remembers what happened.” Don’t ignore him. He moved away for a reason and he came back for a reason and you’re ignoring the fact that 3 people have already died in the same fashion as back in the 1970s when old man Ackerman was still alive. I know it’s impossible and you don’t believe in ghosts, but when your buddy says he knows how to stop it, but he needs your help, you should go with him. Skeptics get killed first. Besides, if he really is crazy and there is no ghost, it would probably turn out to be a good novel.

Please keep in mind that this DOES NOT make you a horror movie expert, there are at least 10 other things you should know before you break down on the side of a road or try to fortify a mall into a base to keep zombies out.

As other experts will tell you (Cody Walker, I’m looking in your direction) this list is far from comprehensive.
More tips to come.

Stay Tuned (yeah, that was a John Ritter pun)

Well, (Marco), in all honesty, there’s a slew of answers(EXCUSES):

I’m busy.
I have shit to do.
I have writer’s block.
My fingers keep cramping.
I have nothing to write about.
I feel like if I write I’ll just repeat myself.
I’m busy, but I don’t have anything to write about.
I feel a constant pressure to be hilariously entertaining yet informative.

You might be asking, Frisco, did you write your answers(EXCUSES) out in a stair-step fashion to be artistic.
No. I’m not Mark Danielewski, but thanks. Also, that’s a weird thing to notice; don’t you have better things to do with your time?

Besides all of those excuses, I have a fair amount of other things going on in my life.

“But write about those things, Frisco!” You scream.

No. Don’t be a pushy asshole. I have a personal life that doesn’t need to go online.
“But, didn’t you write about your entire personal journey to Alaska…and how people think you’re gay and that time you went to a strip club? What about when you posted dumb videos of yourself on the blog?”
Fuck you.

Besides, I don’t blog to entertain you, ass, I blog to get famous. I. Want. To. Be. Famous.

So I did some thinking: who gets famous from blogs?
People that make fun of celebrities and people that give you information you didn’t already know about (about celebrities.)
Thusly, I’ve decided to dedicate myself to constantly making fun of people who are famous in addition to searching the web to bring you information that’s already out there, but you didn’t know existed.
Also, you might have noticed, I’ve started including handy links in the middle of my blog so that you can read even more about what I’m already talking about.

So here is some stuff you didn’t know about celebrities:

While working on a film called The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus, actor Heath Ledger was found dead.

Tom Sizmore has a drug problem.

Linday Lohan’s twin sister doesn’t exist (They just used a green screen in both the parent trap AND I know who killed me).

Dave Chappelle signs on for 2^nd season of Chappelle show!

I don’t really know much about celebrities, so I haven’t gotten to the gossip part yet, but I will, I promise.

So tell your friends about my blog. Not because it’s funny or informative or entertaining, not because it’s something to do when you should be studying, instead do it so I’ll be famous. Because if I’m famous, you’ll know someone who is famous and that will make you kind of cool. Cooler than you are now anyway, unless you’re Jon Berek. (I bet if he had a blog he’d be famous.)

Do it so you can tell your adult friends at your kid’s soccer games “Hey, I went to high school with Frisco,” or “Hey, I made out with that guy one time.”

Sure, I’ll probably pretend I have no idea who any of you are, but that’s the fun part about knowing someone famous.

You might be asking yourself, is That’s About Right back? Is Frisco Macae up to his usual zany tricks?
I don’t know. Maybe. Probably not. Maybe this is the only blog I’ll write and I’ll never blog again. Who knows? Do you know? No you don’t. Or do you? No.

My biggest concern is that because my life is so busy, I might just start repeating myself.

“I wonder if Netflix has porn,” I yelled at him from my room. I was simply browsing through the movies I could watch streaming when Stephen yells back about some documentary.

“Dude,” I said. “Did you just search the word ‘porn.’”
“Yeah,” Stephen said. “Hey, have you every heard of ‘Edward Penishands.”
“Yes,” I said. “But I’ve never been inclined to watch it.”
So then I decided to google “Edward Penishands.” And, of course, I clicked images.

After several pictures that I can only assume were in fact of both Edward and his penis-hands I got to that point in the google image search when you’ve searched something obscure that isn’t “Texas Rangers Logo” and you stumble into the stuff that has nothing to do with what you’ve searched (I realize Google is one of the most comprehensive search engines of all time…but…they should really get their picture searches under control.):
Pictures of Oprah.

Naked girls.

Pictures of Oprah naked.

Whatever. Anyway, I ran into the cover art for a movie where a man in a mask was literally KICKING a dude’s head off, the title of the film was:

“Psycho Kickboxer.”

So naturally, I scooted on over to my secret dvd site that I find all my hard-to-find-ables and, as usual, they had a copy (so, of course, I ordered it, but that’s not the point of this story)
Big Steve came in while I was looking through all of the movies on this site…and…let’s just say that there is some very questionable material on this particular site. I don’t like to give my secrets away, so I only give this site out to people I KNOW deserve to have it. That may sound elitist, and it is, but it’s also for my own benefit. This particular site rarely has more than 1 or 2 copies of these rare movies…I don’t need any more competition that I already have.

So I explain to him how the site works and how everything is broken up by category. We decide to take a quick trip down the “Exploitation” tab.

Within the first two pages we run into a movie called
“Bare Behind Bars” about an all women’s prison with naked inmates that decide to revolt/escape (and subsequently go on a killing spree) (Copyright 1980).  So I said “I wonder if Netflix has this,” quietly and to myself as Stephen had run back into his own room.
Me: “Dude, it’s on Netflix.”
Steve: “Nice, I can’t believe you already found it.”
Me: “I’m one step ahead of you there, Big Steve, I already put it on your list.”
Steve: “Dude. My Netflix still gets sent to my parent’s address.”
Me: “Well, that should be fun.”

From signing up on Netflix, to ordering exploitation.  Twenty-one-five.

For as long as I can remember, I enjoyed writing. My mom frequently regales me with the story that I once, in an attempt to raise money for some forgotten cause (most likely a video game) I wrote and illustrated my own books and sold them in my front lawn.
While other children were selling lemonade, I was selling original books.
I learned a good lesson that day: Don’t become a writer because you want to make money.
I made about 5 or 6 books, which probably took two days, then I sold them for 50 cents a piece, thus making them the only profit I’ve ever made from writing since. Children with lemonade stands turned out a much higher production at a whopping 25 cents a glass while I earned money the hard way. Though, I think later I gave up and switched over to a snow-cone stand which destroyed the competition in the middle of a Texas summer.

Long story short: I love writing.

I’ve read all different stories, but they all melt down to one thing: you have to do it every day.

Cormac McCarthy can sit down and write a Pulitzer Prize winning novel in two weeks (The Road) and make me want to quit forever, but then I hear that it took Mark Danielewski ten years of ten hours a day/seven days a week writing to put together House of Leaves. I found this comforting. I also found it refreshing to hear that hundreds of directors have approached him, including some VERY well known ones, and offered him impossibly large sums of money, to which he always declines. There’s no way anyone could turn that book into a movie, and I love Mr. Danielewski for starving for it, I don’t know that I would be so steadfast.

For me, writing is a little different. It comes in waves. Yes, I try everyday, but sometimes I just sit amongst the trees, waiting for the monsters to come out and they never do. Frequently, in fact, I’ll see the bushes move, but…they stay where they are, hidden. It is frustrating, but for whatever reason, I can’t get enough of it. That’s the reason I started this blog, over a year ago…or has it been two at this point? I started it because I wanted to write all the time and sometimes there are no stories for me to catch in my net, so I…have to talk about my boring-ass life, which…as it turns out some of you dumbasses find interesting. I don’t know why.

The problem with writing is the same thing as the advantage of writing: It’s lonely. When I get off work, it’s always there, and I think that’s why I love it so much. Not once in my entire life has it given me any reason to lose respect or trust for it. That may sound weird, that kind of personification, but it’s definitely a relationship. Most of the time it’s a frustrating, painful and horrible relationship, but it’s loyal, and once or twice a month (if I’m lucky) it’s so amazing that I have to come back to it. Besides, I’ve been through a lot worse and writing was standing in my room when I got home on all those nights. She may have been a bitch about it, writing, and said “I told you so, you asshole,” but she was there and she waited up even though it was always late.

As I said before, everyone I’ve ever listened to said “Do it every day.” And…they’re right, but life doesn’t work on rules like that, at least not for me. Fiona Apple is a guilty pleasure of mine and I once read an interview with her about her music. She was asked why it takes her so long between albums and she said something along the lines of: “I only write music when I need to, I don’t do it all the time. I go outside and live my life and sometimes I come home and I have to write a song and sometimes there’s a lot and sometimes there isn’t.”
This is more akin to how I feel, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t practice. THIS is practice; I’m doing it right now. Does writing a blog about my thoughts make me a better writer? I don’t know. I guess I’m just kind of rambling (And now’s the time, the time is now to SING MY SONG).

READ THIS SECTION IF YOU SKIPPED THE REST:

So I tip my hat at all the writers out there collecting rejection letters. There are a lot of us out there, bloodying our finger-pads everyday against keyboards or digging new grooves in the sides of our fingers as we drain the ink from another pen. Waking up before classes and before work or staying up well beyond when we should. Walking around with bags under our eyes and trying to go on dates when we’re delirious from lack of sleep, or from ideas. And maybe we’re a little loud or we have a couple too many beers because it’s been so long since we’ve been out of our caves (my old roommates used to call my room “The Hovle” because I never left it…at least I think that’s what she said), but give us a break.
You’ll go out and listen to your buddy’s shitty local band or his new recording, or you’ll sit down and watch a twenty minute film your girlfriend made and they ASK you to check it out. They BEG you to rate it on itunes, while we sit quietly in our caves drawing, poetically by candlelight, pictures that we share only with each other, until one of us wins the lottery and gets a small publication that a few of our good friends read.

You never ask to read our stuff and we’re not the type of people to bother you with it, because unlike our filmmaker and musician counterparts, we know we’re not rockstars. We’re just kids sitting in chairs or leaning against trees and telling stories.
So the next time you sit down to listen to that 4 minute shit-fest-song or you decide to go out to see the film premier about the black and white balloon floating in the sky for 22 minutes, maybe you should ask one of those buddies if he or she has a story she’d like to tell you. Because everyone has a couple that they’re proud of and we’re tired of letting each other read them back and forth. Seriously, we’d like you to be interested. All you need to do is ask.

I don’t remember what made me write this story because it was go long ago, but I imagine it had something to do with physics. I wrote it before I had any idea what college was like…or before I really knew how to write (not that I’ve got that one figured out today). So, if you pick up a copy, give me a break, the story is close to 7 years old. There are kids in first grade younger than this story.

But feel free to buy one, or don’t. If you’re looking for a story, I’ve got better free ones than this, but they don’t come in cute little books with strange melty-dragon-monsters on the cover.

I’m not ashamed or embarrassed by this story. It was another pit-stop on the side of the road that’s brought me here. And I like where I am.

All of the profits are split between charities. In the month of October it’s split 50/50 between Breast Cancer and Down Syndrome. It will be different in November, I’ll try to remember to update whenever I hear what it will be.

If you’re curious, my tiny little story is about a college student that gets a little wrapped up in physical concepts and tinkers a little too much.

http://www.amazon.com/Pellucid-Lunacy-Michael-Bailey/dp/145372897X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1288201691&sr=8-1

Originally, I ended this section with a big list of local authors, but I’ve decided to leave them in their caves. They know who they are and maybe you do too. So, if you’ve got a late night to kill, or some studying to should be doing, maybe it’s time you took some initiative and asked one of those friends for a story.
…and please….if you’re going to ask me, don’t think that what I wrote at 16 is anything similar to what I write now.

Why did you leave Alaska so soon?
Dear friends, I believe that there are some things that a man should keep to himself. This is one of them. I know, you’re thinking, ‘but, frisk, that doesn’t make for a very good story.’ Well.. I’ll give you some other ones. Eventually, I might remember more stories, or better ones, or I might read some of my notes from my time in Alaska, but for now this is what I have to offer you. A disjointed selection of anecdotes from my time working at the Hilton. I know there are other stories that I could sit down and write, but I’m anxious to start writing about new things and new ideas. I might eventually revisit the four months I spent on the road and in Alaska, but for now this will have to settle your rumbling stomachs.

I was hired on as the Banquet Manager at the Hilton Anchorage, down town. We had a ridiculous amount of meeting space, of all of which I was in charge.  I was responsible for scheduling, ordering, and just about anything else that had to do with the actual happenings of events…but that’s all the boring stuff, let’s have some fun.

Benefits of working at The Hilton (where I frequently told people that “it happens”)…well actually, why don’t I explain that before I move on. You see, the old Hilton slogan was “It happens at the Hilton” so frequently I would tell guests this in the elevator.
Me: “Hey, gang how is your stay with us going?”
Old Couple: “Well actually the weather has been horrible: Cold and rainy, and we’ve been here for five days.”
(Yeah, well, I’ve been here for two months and it hasn’t changed).

Me: “Oh! Well, I’m sorry to here that, maybe tomorrow it will clear up for you and you’ll be able to see Denali.”

Old Couple (Yes, they speak collectively, it’s what we in the writing business call a ‘composite character’): “We were told we were staying in the second nicest room in the entire hotel, but the entire floor has this nasty, smoky, piney smell.”

Me: “Oh. Well I’m sorry to hear that. Snoop Dogg is currently staying in the nicest room in the hotel and…well…let’s just say he called in advance to make sure he could have a smoking room. Here’s my stop, we hope you enjoy the rest of your stay at the Hilton. This is where it happens, in case you guys were wondering.”

Well. I got free starbucks as many times a day as I wanted it (I’m sure that any of you that know me well enough, know that this is enough to get me to take any job)…and….a radio….plus there was this cute girl that worked on the 4th floor (where all us managers hung out). I think she kinda had a boyfriend or something, but she was pretty cool…so I would always swing by her office and tell her bad jokes. No real story there, friends.

I had to wear a radio. I have to admit, at first, I was stoked. I considered the possibilities of constantly having a radio and how much fun it would be…but then I realized that people are always talking on it and calling me..to do stuff…like work. That’s stupid.

Anyone that’s worked in a hotel knows that there are codes.

“Room 217 is a maidcart.”
“Room 1408 is DND.”
“Code Daniel on the second floor hallway.”

I won’t give away too many secrets, but let’s just say that if you hear ‘code Daniel,’ you might want to think “hey_don’t do tha–not on the rug, man.”

You’d be surprised how frequently you hear a code Daniel.
As for DND…well…I feel like if you think about it long enough, you’ll figure it out. It’s not exactly a code. Just change “is DND” to “Has a DND” …and then maybe add “sign.”
I know it’s tricky, but I’ll leave it up to you.

A casual conversation on the radio for me would go something like this:

Front Desk: “Base to banquets, base to banquets, the Lupine room needs 25 more chairs.”
Me: “Copy that, Red Leader. Heading in.”
FD: “Frisco, stop calling me Red Leader.”
Me: “It’s a trap!”
FD: “The radio isn’t a toy.”
Me: “Ten-Four. Sorry, Ackbar. Frisco over and out…kkksshckt”
FD: “Don’t make the radio sound.”
Me: “Hold on. I think I see something in the back of the refrid-in the back of the closet. Nope. Coast is clear.”
FD: “Frisco, who’s your banquet captain tonight?”
Me: “Rodney.”
FD: “Give your radio to Rodney.”

Granted. This didn’t all happen at one time. But…eventually I said all of those things. Hey. I had fun at work.

At the Hilton there was a formal “stand-up” meeting every day at 8:30am. Well…Monday-Friday anyway. Basically all the department heads would meet with the GM and we would stand around and listen to what was going on in the hotel for the day, how many ‘arrivals and departures’ and how many ‘rooms’ as well as what percentage we were ‘running at’ (We frequently ran at over 100 percent…which meant that more rooms were booked than we physically have…what you’ll be surprised to know is that almost every hotel does this, because chances are, not everyone will show up).

There was one meeting where the GM said this:
GM: I want this to be kept between us, but recently, I don’t know if anyone has noticed, but the hot water in the 2^nd floor bathrooms has been cranked and the cold water has been turned off. Several people have been scalding. There are also several other instances of sabotage, so keep your eyes peeled in your departments.”
(I lean over in an aside to the assistant F&B director who was one of my better friends at the hotel)

Me(whisper): It’s probably a ghost.
GM: Frisco, did you have an idea?”
Me: Me? Oh-uh. I’m just running under the impression that it could possibly be a ghost.

I tried to give my ghost theory validity, which included swinging by several department head’s offices and trying to enlist them, however none of them seemed to enjoy this.

Then there was this AWESOME button…that I had to pass by every day and not press:

Seriously….I almost pressed it on my last day, if only I had known at the time that my last day would be my last day.

After a few weeks of wondering what it did I asked the front desk manager and he said “Oh, it’s an emergency power shut down for the entire lobby and front desk…I guess it’s because the boiler room is right below us, so it’s a necessary precaution.”
He went on to inform me that a maintenance guy, on his first day, had decided the red button was too tempting to resist and it took the front desk 30 or so minutes to get all the power back on.
Tempting.

I’m sure I’ll remember more as I go, but here’s my personal favorite story and, it’s a That’s About Right Exclusive, because I’ve never told it to ANYONE…EVER. (Seriously…it’s exclusive as h-e-c-k).

(I’m going to keep myself from exaggeration on this bit, because it was such a CRAZY moment. All of this REALLY happened, when I left the room the first thing I did was go take notes so that I could eventually write about it).

We had this HUGE international conference in on my second week as banquet manager when I was still trying to figure out how all the union laws worked. There were literally people from all over the world. Hardly anyone spoke English and it was difficult communicating with all the different guests. My GM liked me to table-touch (a term you know if you’ve ever working in the restaurant industry and a term I won’t explain) which…as you know would be a ton of work at a 600 person plated dinner, specifically when no one speaks English.

During the middle of a lecture I was walking through our big ballroom, just kind of…being a manager, making sure everything looked tidy and….you know, wearing a tie and shit.

There was a Russian dude. He was older, maybe in his early 50s, graying brown hair. Tall, probably 6’4 or 6’5. He wore a short-sleeve salmon button up tucked into his slacks and his glasses low on his nose like he was reading something in his lap that he didn’t want anyone else to see.
As I passed him he grabbed my wrist and said:
“Excuse. Me?”

I’m going to name him Vladamir because it’s the only Russian name I can think of without doing research, and if you ever read my blog, I’m sure you know that research isn’t something I’m particularly fond of, I’d rather just be racist and completely inaccurate. (In other news, I’ve recently heard that Eastman Kodak is a really good buy and that you should hold out on those Beanie Babies and POGS because, soon they’ll be worth some serious cash).

Me: “Yes. How can I help you, sir?”
Vlad: “ Where. Are. Restaurant?”
Me: “You’re looking to eat lunch?”
Vlad (Shaking his head vehemently): “No. Where. ARE. Restaurant bellmen?”
I put my hand to my mouth to try to figure out what he wants with a restaurant that isn’t eating. (What could Blue possibly want to do with a fork…a plate…and a box of mac and cheese?)
Me: “You’re trying to find food?”
Vlad shook his head and pulled out a pen and paper…and wrote in English with far better handwriting than myself.
He wrote: “Between you and I” then looked up at me and I nodded, wondering where this was going. He wrote: “Where are bellman. RESTAURANT?!”
I shrugged.
Me: “I don’t know what you mean. I’m sorry.”
He frowned and scratched out “Where are bellman. RESTAURANT?!” then tapped at the “Between you and I.” again and looked at me questioningly. I nodded again. He nodded and continued. Then he wrote this (word for word):
“Where are girls for sex?!”
At this point, I wasn’t sure whether he was looking to pick someone up or…for a different service altogether, so I shrugged again. This time he grabbed my wrist and shook his head.
“No.” He said out loud then wrote “I have money.”
I had no idea how to respond to this so I said “I’m sorry, I just moved here from Texas. I don’t know where any prostitutes are.”
This seemed to get through; he said: “Texas?” and it was my turn to nod. Then he smiled, saluted me and stood up and walked out. He didn’t even bother to listen to the lecture that he or his company was spending thousands of dollars to send him to.

This made me curious about the cultural differences between the United States and Russia.
Do people just walk around asking where the bellman restaurant prostitutes are in Russia, or do I have a certain look about me, a look that says “Hey, this guy knows where them tricks at, because he certainly ain’t getting none on his own.”
It’s a shame I didn’t meet him in Texas. I could have sent him to R-BAR.

As usual, I get tired of people asking me why I’m not blogging, it’s always the same people…well…I say people as though it’s plural, but it’s really just my mom. Hey, mom.
Maybe I’ll eventually write a blog on why I don’t blog. That’s what we call ironic humor in this business.

Well. I spent 4 months as the banquet manager for the largest hotel in the largest state in the US.
I know, that’s fucking hilarious…I suppose you were anticipating something more interesting like…a crab fishing boat or…at polar bear hunting gig.

Thing I learned in Alaska:

If you see a really cute girl, she’s probably a tourist. If she’s not, she has a boyfriend and he has tribal tattoos….and he’s probably in the Air Force

There are no hipsters in Alaska. Reasoning: it’s too fucking cold for pussies.

Up here, everyone calls snowmobiles ‘snowmachines.’ I tell them where I come from, snowmachines actually make snow.
Reasoning: Fog machines are used to produce fog for haunted houses, not for souring through fog…though, that would be some pretty sweet Back to the Future shit.

In Alaska, spicy food is a hot commodity (get it?). I went to Carr’s to purchase some Jalapenos, but couldn’t find any fresh, so I asked.
Me: Hey, do you guys have Jalapenos?
Produce Woman: Oh, well we have the red kind.
Me: Oh…kay?

So she guided me to the ‘red jalapenos’ now, I realize that red jalapenos exist, but clearly these were Chili peppers….the most recognizable pepper of all time.
Though…in the defense of Alaskans, no one puts lightup chili peppers on their Christmas trees up here.

Up there, we just call it King Crab.

Yes, you really can see Russia.

If a homeless person tells me he’s going to spend his money on booze, I’m far more likely to give him money.

A man came up to me and said

“Hey, buddy, can you spare 35 cents?”

“What do you need exactly 35 cents for?” I asked.
“Well,” he said. “To be honest, brother, it’s been a rough day and I’m trying to get some beer.”
“Hey,” I said and handed him a 10.“Get drunk on me.”

Though…there was a HUGE black dude that stood on the corners of one of my streets that I gave cash to at least once a week.
He had a cardboard sign and the only thing it said was:
“Hard times on the streets.”
Impossible not to give money to someone that hard.

Something I learned since being back in Denton:
A surprising amount of people actually read this blog.
I’ve said it 1,000 times before, but…I’m going to try to keep up with this bad-boy.
Translation: I’ll post 4 posts and then get bored and stop doing it again until I have too much free time.
But I need your help too. Comment. Tell me your own stories. If you’ve got something you want to add, send it to me in an e-mail and I’ll read it and I’ll probably post it up. My life isn’t that interesting, I’ll run out of clever eventually…well…maybe.

I plan on doing a big overview of everything that happened while I was in Alaska, but it will definitely take some time to compose properly, so you’ll have to be patient…though if you’re still reading after this long, I’m assuming that’s no problem for you. I hope it will be as entertaining as it is enlightening…or at least a good time killer when you should be studying, but for now I’m going to get right down to business.

I learned a lot, well beyond the fuzzy little jokes I’ve posted here. There’s stuff that will probably never be recited or explained that happened and there’s a lot of stuff no one would really be able to understand unless you’ve been there. I’m not trying to get up on a pedestal, far from it, in fact.

I’ve been back in Texas for a little bit and, we’ll go into details and stories and cute little anecdotes some other time, but right now I’ve got a quick one for you.

When I was in Alaska, I went out with some buds about once a week or so, but rarely did I dress up in anything more than a white v-neck and jeans. I wasn’t particularly trying to impress anyone…except for maybe Lessie…but let’s just ignore that….I’m running under the assumption she’ll never read this. (But just in case: Oh. Hey, Lessie.) So essentially, all of the nice Express t-shirts and Polos I had bought over the years spent about 6 months not being worn, during the time I was traveling and the time I was living in Anchorage, they were either in boxes or on hangers, but never touched.

So, I get back to Texas, unload, and get a new apartment with a sexy new roommate and all of that good stuff.

Roommate pictured here: 

Some people want to go out so I try to get dressed…but my shirt doesn’t fit.
“Huh.” So I try a different one…nope.
How about…well son of a bitch.

None of my shirts fit.

I called my best friend extremely upset and said “NONE of my clothes fit…but it’s not like I’m fat…they just don’t fit in my chest…I don’t know what to do.”

She said: “Well. You’re a man now.”

I think that about sums it up.

I woke up with that stomach at still in the pit of my stomach, like a gallon of warm milk was gurgling in my stomach. It wasn’t a new sensation. I’ve felt it off an on throughout my life whenever I start to feel like I’m in over my head or at times when certain things have moved beyond my control and understanding and become increasingly painful.

Most recently I had experienced it for a couple of weeks straight when my best friend of four years told me she didn’t want to speak with me anymore because I had changed and offered me a cold “good luck with” my “endeavors” and signed herself out of my life. But that’s a different story, I’m not here to complain.

Over the course of my short life I’ve learned that nothing is predictable and nothing can be controlled, truly, other than your own reaction to the world around you. My major philosophy in life is personal perception. You can’t control the rain, but you can always control whether you complain about it or go play in it.

When I woke up on June 26^th I felt hung over from fear, but the Frisco Edwards that frequently calls me a pussy had been up for a few hours and was already brewing his second pot of coffee. He had shaved that morning with the buck knife my brother gave me and was looking for a fight. He forced me into my slacks and button up and made me put on a tie and before I knew what was going on, I was being pushed out the door to check out and go find a job. (It turned out that he had already booked me a hotel for the next two nights at the Extended Stay for 170 a night).

When I got off the elevator and stepped into the lobby I noticed an older gentleman arguing with the front desk clerk. I walked up to the woman at the front desk and quickly checked out, but not without noticing the man first.

He was wearing a tattered and wrinkled brown suit and cheap Walmart brand dress shoes. Beneath this he had a multi colored stripped polo shirt. He was aged, but I recognized him immediately as the watermelon smashing man that I had grown up watching.

He traveled only with a case of Jim Beam that clinked when he moved. I don’t know whether he had already taken the rest of his belongings out, or if that’s all he traveled with. He was upset with the staff and was visibly angry, which made approaching him all more frightening. But I knew I’d kick my ass all day if I didn’t.

“Excuse me, sir.” I said “You’re not…Gallagher are you?” He smiled and looked up at me, setting his box down.
“I am.”
“That’s awesome. Dude, I grew up watching you, can I take a picture with you?”
“Of course, man. What’s your name.”
“Frisco.”
“Nice to meet you, Frisco,” he said and extended his hand to grasp mine.

After the pictures were taken he informed me that I should attend his show at the convention center tonight. I told him I’d be there and asked him if he thought that there were still seats left.
“Frisco,” he said “There are hundreds.” I thanked him again and walked out thinking how rough times had become for everyone.

Sitting in my truck, I realized that I had no plan for the day. My gps did nothing and I couldn’t check into my hotel until 3. It was only 9 in the morning and I had a lot of time to kill.

I considered going out and trying to find a bar tending job, and maybe things would have been a little different if I had, but I didn’t. I convinced myself that the safeway people would contact me and that’s who I’d end up working with. At the time I was still unsure about Anchorage. My first night had been horrifying, a terrible first impression and I was considering packing everything up and heading north to Fairbanks to find a job. I considered doing it that day, but I wanted to see Gallagher. Felt obligated even to give him one more ticket sale. And I couldn’t fight the feeling of it being a once in a lifetime chance, which…I’m sure it was.

Instead, I decided to see what Anchorage had to offer. I wanted to give it another chance and see whether or not it could talk me into staying.
It turned out to be very persuasive.

Parking is hard to come by in the summer. Even people that work at a particular store aren’t allowed to park in the parking lot, unless they’re management (go me).  Eventually, after circling down town several times in a vehicle that DOES NOT take sharp turns and narrow roads very well, I managed to pull into a parking garage for 2 dollars an hour (which is about standing, though there are some 1 dollars, they just tend to fill up faster, for obvious reasons). I parked, locked up, and went out on the town.
The day was cool, as most days are up here, and overcast, a condition of which I’m a fan. For the first hour, I simply walked around town, marveling at how much was going on, much of it geared toward the tourists. There were bands playing, small outside markets everywhere. Hotdog vendors.  Shops that sold shirts like this:

(If you can’t tell, the shirt says “I can see Russia from my house”)

And everything else that you would expect from a big (small) city. Not to mention the constant of mountains in the background, almost everywhere I turned and the coast, perpetually in front of me. I decided to walk along the beach, wishing I had not dressed for job interviews and worn jeans, but enjoying it nonetheless. Watching huge ships pull into the Cook Inlet I began to think that I might be able to consider this place home.

Finally, lunch rolled around and I found one of the many microbreweries.
Glacier Brewhouse may not have the best pizza, but their beers are amazing. I sat around and drank three with my lunch. I ordered the double stout twice because it was so good and I also sampled their Oatmeal stout, which while good, couldn’t compare to the double.

I was starting to feel better already. I went outside and stumbled into the convention center accidentally and bought tickets to Gallahger.

For the rest of the day I simply wondered. No longer worried about finding an apartment or a job, and enjoyed my time for what it was, until I checked into my hotel around 4.

The extended stay was nice. One huge king bed with a breakfast nook, and desk then a separate room with a full sized couch. I kept winding up in these rooms because I booked late. So I decided to book the next three nights in the cheapest HOTEL I could find downtown and then spent the rest of my afternoon reading and writing in my hotel until it was time to go see Gallagher.

On my way into the theater a young woman approached me and started talking to me. I don’t know how it happened, but somehow she introduced me to her two friends and told me that they had an extra ticket in the splatter zone if I wanted to join them.
I said I would.

Gallagher was exactly as I hoped he’d be: Politically charged and drastically raunchy. This wasn’t a pg-13 show. As I had hoped he told horrible, crude jokes and made the audience squeamish. The show he put on was outstanding.

I thanked my new friends and said goodbye without any real formal introductions and walked back to my hotel.

I felt good. I told myself I’d hear from Safeway on Monday and there was no need to look around for an apartment or a second job until I knew where I would be working and what the pay would be like.

My first impression of Anchorage had been wrong. While it is a dangerous city, it is no more dangerous than any other and I had tried to stay in the worst part of it on my first night. My first true day in Alaska had been a great success and it would only continue to get better. Great beer, great weather and great coincidental entertainment.
I don’t require much else…really all I need is the beer.

I made it.

But let’s take a step back shall we?

When I woke up in Whitehorse I was headed to Tok, but before I got there, I drove through a cute little place called Destruction Bay.

Not only do they have one of the coolest names of all time…addition to an amazing view, but they also have a wooden police car cut out to prevent speeders.

And…at a distance, it’s not too bad (though…pictures don’t really do it justice), but as you approach it, it becomes terribly obvious.

After some gas, I headed to the border. But before I got there, I stopped and got a coffee and some banana walnut bread at a place called Buckshot Betty’s:

Then I got to the border.

I pulled up and spoke with the border patrol officer. It went something like this:

BPO: How ya doin’?
Me: Pretty damned good, thanks.
BPO: What brings you to Alaska?”
Me: I’ve got a job interview with Safeway.

BPO: Do you have any weapons?
Me: Yes, sir. A shotgun.
BPO: No handguns?

Me: No, sir.

BPO: Did you buy anything in Canada?

Me: Well, a sweatshirt and a couple of shirts.
This is where the BPO waves his hands in a warding off gesture.

BPO: My gift to you. Good luck with the interview. Welcome to Alaska.
Me: Thanks.

I nodded, smiling and pulled away, crossing the the U.S. border in the process, thinking that those three words meant more to me than he could have ever known.
Welcome to Alaska.

I fucking made it.

The drive kept getting more and more beautiful. Eventually it was too much and I had to pull over.

Let’s throw it down to Moe at the scoreboard, MOE! (oops…sorry…I always wanted to be on Global Guts…I mean let’s go to Frisco on the field)

The original plan was to stop in Tok, about a six hour drive from Anchorage, but then I showed up at 3…and I was in the zone.
I had a hotel booked and I called and canceled it. I had already done research in Anchorage and had found a very modestly priced weekly hotel. I called them and made a reservation and started out.

My GPS went Terry Shivo (I told you guys I was going hard), as it did most of the way through Canada and I had to turn it off because I got sick of it rerouting me onto roads that weren’t there.

I literally came to a T in the road with one arrow pointing to Anchorage and the other to Fairbanks. There was a decision to be made and I sat there for a moment. And turned, heading toward Anchorage.

The lack of road signs was disturbing at first, but I was used to driving down bullshit roads by this point. The fact that I drove an hour without seeing an “Anchorage _____ Miles” was starting to get to me. I had a bad feeling that I was heading the wrong direction.
It turned out that bad feeling was accurate.

I turned around about an hour and a half out of the way and added three hours to the drive. It’s a good thing it doesn’t get dark up here.

When I arrived in Anchorage I felt like a complete badass (and…rightfully so if I do say so myself). I walked into my motel to check in. The area was pretty sketchy. There were homeless people walking everywhere, but I’ve never been afraid of homeless people. They’re probably too weak from hunger to attack me and it’s not like they’d spend the money on a weapon. Plus homelesses definitely won’t leave their shopping cart, which means I can out run them.
We call it the Nike Defense.

(On a side note…it’s amazing how much homeless people look like post apocalyptic survivors up here…full long beards and hair, big jackets and shopping carts)

It was really all the natives that were creepy. I’m sorry. I’m not necessarily a racist, but big groups of any race wearing big hoods and holding 40’s and looking angry and staring at me make me nervous.
Whatever. I just drove across the fucking country. Bring it, eskomos.

I walked in and was greeted with the overpowering smell of Fabreeze. The huge bald dude didn’t even look up when I came in. He was watching something on the television…I think it was Never Back Down.

“Hey, man,” I said and he looked up then stood. It might have been my imagination, but I think he ducked a little bit when he stood despite the 10ft ceiling. His bald head reflected my fear and for the first time since I left I began to feel like maybe I had made a mistake. (I suddenly felt like Kevin McCalster in Home Alone 2 when he’s running away from everything that’s scary and sits down in the cab and the driver turns around and says “Ain’t much better in here, kid.”

“What?” he said.
“I–uh–I made a reservation for the week.”
“Name?

“Edwards, Frisco.”
“Right. Credit card?”

“Sure.”
I handed it over and allowed him to charge me for the week. I suppose in retrospect this was a mistake, but I was terrified. I was the scared kid at summercamp, away from his parents for the first time. I knew that any situation that I got myself into I’d have to get myself out of. I’m not lookin’ for a jackpot here, buddy. There was that realization that I was 4,300 miles away from everything I had ever known and, while that’s why I had left in the first place, it was finally real. I wasn’t driving any more, I wasn’t in transit, I was here, the place I was going to spend at least a year of my life starting in that moment, and I was fucking scared.

He handed me some papers that I signed and then gave me a key.
I walked out to find my room and past a woman in a wheelchair who wouldn’t stop staring at me. There were four dudes standing outside the door to the room next to mine. They stared too, but it wasn’t that ‘I’m old and crazy’ stare it was a ‘if you turn your back on us, we’ll slit your fucking throat and play in your blood, homie.’

I nodded.
They nodded.
I moved to my door and was hardly surprised when my key didn’t open it. A kid that was running around, maybe about six, stopped and told me how to use it. He tried it and it still didn’t work and he told me I should go back down to the desk.
Taking his advice I went back down to see Mr. Clean’s evil twin.

“My–uh–key doesn’t work.” The man stared at me for a minute and then came around the counter and took the card from me and walked back up to the room with me, as though I might be lying just to be a dick.
Turned out the key didn’t work.
So he reprogrammed it and walked back up with me.
This one worked, but when we stepped into my room the bed wasn’t made. There was trash everywhere. Beer bottles. A bottle of Yukon Jack. The room smelled like cigarette, and beneath that there was the piney gin like smell of weed. Under all that, I think I recognized burning hair and vomit.
“God-fucking-damnit,” the man said and I wondered if he ever considered that his customer might be offended by his language. The fact that he had said exactly what I was thinking made me feel slightly better.

“It’s so hard to get good help around here, man.” He said “Let’s get you another room.”

So we did. And this one turned out to be clean…well…if you want to call it that. At least the beds were made.

There was a window in the back, by the small kitchen and it was open. I went to close it…and found that there was no glass. This is when I decided I wouldn’t be spending the night.

I went back down to the front desk.

“Hey, man. I don’t mean any disrespect or anything but…I just don’t feel safe staying here.” He said nothing, so I continued. “I just have my entire life in the back of that truck and…I feel really uncomfortable leaving it out.”
“It’s safe here. I’m here all night.” I didn’t point out to him that he wasn’t exactly the most trustworthy motherfucker I’d ever met.

“Yeah well…it’s just my not style, man.”
“Alright. Your call.”
“Do you think I can get my money back?”
“I can’t do it. But if you come back tomorrow the owner might.”
“Do you think…that would be something he would do?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”

I nodded and headed out to my truck.

I had no idea where I was headed. All the roads up here are one way. My gps was a paperweight and the only person I had met probably wanted to kill me.

Things were getting real, really quickly.

I drove around until I found a hotel that looked like it was in a nice area and parked, hoping they had something.
They had one room.
A suit at 270 dollars.
I took it.

Did I mention the only thing I had eaten was that banana nut bread from earlier? The biggest problem with traveling down dirt roads is no one thinks to put up a McDonald’s.

I did have a microwave, so I busted into my supplies and ate some Chef Boyadee.
Then it was about 2 in the morning.  I hadn’t heard from my safeway contact at all despite my e-mails, but then again it was the weekend.

It looked like 3 in the afternoon outside. I sat down on my bed and then heard all the sirens. Looking out my window I could see about 7 or 8 police cars (seriously) I couldn’t tell what was happening (although the next day I would learn that someone was stabbed to death outside a bar).

I knew I wasn’t going to get my money back at the hotel. I didn’t have a job or a place to live and I was quickly running out of cash, especially if I kept staying in hotels and eating out. The fun, spontaneous nature of trying to find a job and an apartment, now that it was real, seemed drastically stressful and almost impossible. I was incapacitated with the fear of the situation I had put myself in.  My stomach ached. It was a feeling I recognized from Childhood when I used to try to spend the night at a friend’s house. Around midnight or 1 in the morning my stomach would start to ache and, for whatever reason, I would become very uncomfortably. It was always when everyone went to sleep and I had to stay up because I was used to going to bed later (even at age 7). Sometimes I would make up some excuse about having forgotten medication, but a majority of the time I would tough it out. I’d stay up all night, never falling asleep and listen to every little creak in the house. I couldn’t make an excuse and go home. I was here and this was exactly what I wanted. But the tough me that would normally look myself in the mirror and call me a pussy had taken the night off, or maybe he was hiding, holding his own beanie baby.

If nothing else, I had found what I was looking for. This was definitely not complacency. I was uncomfortable.

Still hungry I crawled into bed, not tired at all, and pulled the covers up to my neck. I pulled Mr. Bearson out of my bag and held him up against my chest. I laid there and thought about what I would do tomorrow. Get up, get dressed in a shirt and tie and go find a job, after I found a hotel, of course. I felt a little better, having a plan, but not much. I was still in a foreign and scary place without any sort of plan.

So, as the sun shined outside, leaving my room in a dim blue as it faded through the binds and curtains, I fell asleep to the sounds of the sirens outside.
…to be continued in Day 9.

Day 7 was a fairly nice drive. It was short, maybe seven hours. Compared to the hauls I’d been making, it was a nice little break.

In the morning, as I was heading out of Watson Lake, I found a cute little place called “Sign Post Forest” and I had to stop.
Let’s throw it out to Frisco Macae in the field, Frisco.

For more pictures, look at my facebook album from the drive.

I got to Whitehorse before I could even check into my hotel, it was around 1pm I think.  I was hungry, but I hadn’t much coffee and I saw a starbucks.

I’ve still yet to get homesick (and…I’ve been in Anchorage for almost 10 days now…sorry…I know I’m getting behind), but there are certain things that kind of make you feel…well, out of place for lack of a better phrase. When you’re away from everything you know, it’s almost exhausting after a while, especially in another country (not that Canada is drastically different.. but it’s the little differences. For instance, at McDonals they don’t have a Quarter pounder with cheese…they use the metric system, they wouldn’t know what the fuck a quarter pounder was, they call it a royale with cheese.)

But seriously, there are crazy little differences. So I see the starbucks and I go in. I order a doubleshot and they say:
“You want just…like a doppio?”
Me: “No…no, sorry, you guys don’t have the strarbucks double shot on your menu?”
Girl: “uhm…no, what’s that?”

BUH. So I have to explain it to her. I kind of walked into starbucks thinking, it would be nice and kind of…comforting in a way to get the drink that I always get in Texas. Wrong. Now I’m a fucking Barista.  I guess it’s a good thing I know how the drink is made.
Maybe I should have ordered moose piss. (Easy, Frisk, now you’re just being vindictive)
All and all Whitehorse is an AWESOME little town. If it wasn’t in Canada, I could totally live there (Yeah, that was a stab…specifically at Levi).

It’s a pretty hip town. I think it has about 27,000 people. Not too bad. Their little downtown is kind of like being at a larger version of the square in denton, with a few more roads. There’s homeless, there’s hipsters, there’s moose..well…okay so denton lacks that as well as the cold and the view of the mountains, but it’s still similar.
One thing I noticed is that the homeless are cute. There was a girl playing a guitar, barefoot, for money. Super cute. Sleeves, septum ring. Homeless. It’s a rough world out there, guys, I’m just living in it.

Then I go to subway, thinking, well starbucks failed me, subway HAS to make me feel like home.
Nope.
Bread: different
Toppings: Different
Dressing: DRASTICALLY different.
When will people learn that the American way is the way everything should be done?

AND WHERE’S THE FUCKING CHIPOTLE IN THIS GODDAMNED TOWN!

I check into my hotel, it’s fairly nice. Kind of old…but so are all of them. After a while, I get bored of sitting in my room and blogging and I head out to the bar that’s in my hotel. It’s my last day in Canada and I’ve still about 4 beers to try….but when I get to the bar I found out that Yukon has two of it’s own brewing companies.
Take that 4 and add about 10 more. Let’s show’em how Big Tex does it.

I thought this one was too cool not to take a picture of:

Lead Dog Ale

So I start drinking some beer. I ordered a Bison burger. And I talk with the bartender, who’s a cute, tall redhead. Her name is Natalia She’s fairly frail. I only point this out because she tells me later that she’s a prison guard full time during the week.

I get my bison and Natalia warns me about the ketchup. She says it’s Canadian and it tastes complete different. Alright…sure…different ketchup.

No…she’s serious:

It’s actually really good. It’s like our ketchup, but quite a bit sweeter. It’s good for boring fries…like all of the ones in Canada.

(For another difference, in Canada they watch the NHL draft…and it’s a huge deal)
As I’m eating, I meet Tim.

Tim comes in with dirty jeans and a dirty shirt with holes in it and says: “I’ll take a blue, please.”
(He means Labatt blue).

We get to talking and Tims says
“I’m probably what you’d call a Redneck, ay.” And…it’s funny because of his thick Canadian accent, but I know what he means. He truly is a Canadian redneck. He’s a fisher and a hunter and he likes his Blue. I tell him I’m crossing the border back into the U.S. tomorrow and he regales me with a story I’ll recreate for you now.

Tim and a good amount of his friends go across to the U.S. every year, sometimes multiple times. They hunt and fish in Alaska…not to mention complain about the ‘pussy beer’ (but….when you’re drinking Labatt Blue, I don’t know that you have room to talk). Well, apparently, even though they do this all the time, they get hassled by the border…everytime.

A bunch of hard-ass looking Canadians with beards carrying the maximum amount of beer per person along with shotguns, riffles and ammo probably raises some warning flags…actually that’s an outdated image, let’s say it pops up warning indicators on their computers.

Anyway, Tim and his two or three car loads of buddies go across. Apparently one of their guides buys a little weed and they go through most of it in Alaska, but not all of it. The rest, he hides in one of Tim’s bags.
On the way back across the border, for whatever reason, the Canadian side decides to take everything apart and of course, they find the weed. It’s not even enough to get you a ticket in the states, but the panic at the border.
Apparently the way it works is that they can suspend you. Now Tim cannot come back into the U.S. for 10 years.
Yeah…10 fucking years, because he had a joint in his bag. This is the U.S. policy.

I asked Tim how much he and his friends would spend over in Alaska on an average trip and he said anywhere from 6-10 thousand collectively on rentals and beer and food and everything else.
That’s a large sum of money to keep out of your country. Tim swears he’ll never go back to the states again after the way he was treated.
Good going.

So there’s my sob story.  I’ll leave diplomacy to the guys who are good at it.

Natalia invited me down to the hotel’s after party and I went. I was there before her and I was drunk so I walked up to the bar and through on an accent. Not a Texas accent. Looking back, I don’t even know what it was, but I walked up to the bartender and said:
“I’ll take a blue please.”
He paused, looked at me, nodded, then grabbed me a Labatt Blue and I sat at the bar and drank it until Natalia came down.
I can’t remember the rest. Maybe I sat at the bar looking like an American douchebag, or maybe for a little bit I was just part of the crowd. I had spent the entire day trying to find things to make me feel at home, but maybe, in the end, all I had to do was pretend I was at home.

No. Fuck that. I want my goddamned Chipotle, they can keep their stupid fucking sweet ketchup and dumbass bison burgers.

Maybe not every time, but almost every time (I don’t like commitments) I’m going to post a new blog and wait a day, or maybe two, before advertising it on facebook and my other outlets.

So this is for you, subscribers. Thanks and keep reading.

And if you don’t subscribe…nows a damn good time to start.