Awkward Existential Crisis

I wish I could scream and break everything in the the material world. I’m sick of having to placate this internal, spiritual part of me with material things. I’m so frustrated and defeated but what is kicking a wall going to do? Or breaking a computer? These are two separate entities we’re talking about. The material and spiritual world are two different things but we deal with one through the other. I feel empty so I break a lamp, but what is that really doing for my spirit? I wish I could slip across to the other side and deal with these feelings that I know have nothing to do with all the things around me. I know because nothing around me satisfies that hunger. I’m so fucking famished. But there’s no food. At least, not the kind that would fill me for more than an hour or two. I need to see things on the other side, I want to step across. I just need to find the signs. I don’t want to become a drone. I don’t want to become addicted to Time, becuase I’m so very terrified of it. It’s chasing me around and I can’t grab it, touch it, see it, feel it, I just know it’s there, stalking me. And I feel so helpless, because it doesn’t want to get me. It has no emotions, it’s just going to consume me. So I do crazy things to try and forget that time is there, with its empty arms stretched out, sucking the life out of me, but also putting some back in, but slowly sucking more out than it puts back, until I reach that day when it will take me away and lay me down, and fill me. Will I feel whole? I hope so. Let’s face it, Time is going to be the best fuck of my life. It will leave me breathless.

Start Mixing Your Fake Blood; It's Coming...

Ok, so Halloween's right around the corner. Pumpkins are for sale, costumes are being sold, Halloween II is all rented out at Blockbuster. So why is Halloween so awkward?

1.) Screaming at the top of your lungs when the electric pumpkin says 'ahahaha!' is, well embarrassing if you aren't under the age of three. Especially if it sounds like you may be getting attacked. Or if you're a girl who can scream at an adult decible now and hasn't realized it. If your scream scares other people more than the thing you're screaming at, you might be a candidate. Beware.

2.) Costumes are especially limited if you are eighteen and over. No longer acceptable: fairies, ghosts, M&Ms, princesses. You could always settle on the staggeringly cliche costumes of being a witch if you're a female and something resembling Tarzan if you're a man. Otherwise, the more elaborate the better. However, let's say one goes overboard--overboard includes any sewing you are doing, a costume that costs more than your monthly health insurance bill, or anything with decadent body paint. If you tend to choose costumes like these, beware, it is a tad bit awkward that you are so excited for a holiday geared towards little kids that you're willing to compete with them despite the fact that you're thirty and well, it isn't much of a competition with anything when there's that big of an age gap. Chill out and have a beer, all that face paint'll smear anyway after your eighth turn at the beer bong.

3.) You're really going to go Trick or Treating? It's great motivation to imagine all the candy you could get now that you're twenty. You have all sorts of new schemes to get certain houses to give you double the snickers bars, but to actually go through with it? Hmm. There's nothing more awkward than opening your door for the hundredth time to tell the little snot nosed kids that your lights off for a reason and finding a fat man with a beer belly, shoddily covered with a dirty sheet moaning 'ooooooooo'. At this age, you will never be a ghost, you have dressed up, regardless fo your intention, as a creep. You know CVS sells candy really cheap during Halloween? Save everyone the pity they'll surely have for you and buy a big 'ol bag of mini chocolates. You can still wear the cape if you want, in the privacy of your own home (please).

4.) Scaring someone to the point of restraining order may signal a more severe deep seeded mental affliction. I had the pleasure of going to Knott's Scary Farm this past week and despite the embarrassment I now feel for how scared I actually was, it was generally fun. However, there were a few times when the fun turned into early signs of an ensuing panic attack. Whenever the process of holy-shit-did-he-just-say-that-I-forgot-my-Mace comes into your head, you've been scared beyond an appropriate amount. The 'Scaries' who walk around the amusement park take their job a little too seriously. Not satisfied with a meager scream and a laugh, there were Goblins who came up to your ear saying 'Aren't I pretty enough for you?' and 'Do you want to die?' and the surprisingly frightening, 'Bitch, I'm going to kill you,' This is the kind of scary that ends with chalk outlines and police-tape. If you get the urge to scare others in this way, mayabe it's for the best that you sit this year out and have a little one-on-one with the Therapist.

5.) Carving pumpkins. There's a strange book out right now called Extreme Pumpkins. The title is fitting. Some guy has carved pumpkins into intricate designs. There's the radioactive pumpkin, equipped with broken glow sticks, the crime-scene pumpkin sporting an exit wound to the side of its gourd and even a pumpkin destroyer who has been menacingly propped up with sticks to give the impression that this pumpkin will fuck your pumpkins up. While my coworkers asked in awe, "How does he do that?!" the more appropriate question may be "But why?" Not only do the pumpkins look impossible to replicate, but the book is basically a how-to guide so you can make your own. If you have this much time to spend on carving pumpkins that will get smashed, rot, and go out of style in exactly three weeks, maybe you should start that novel you're always telling everyone you'll write. At least then you'll have something to show for those two weeks than some pumpkin pulp and cuts from the carver.

Coming Soon: Awkward, Mockward: Halloween Edition. Equipped with costumes and traditional (and some not so traditional) Halloween festivities. Awk-on.

A Poem About Babies

Oh God, no, please no
don't ask me to hold the baby
I don't want your baby
you're all watching me
you want to see if I'll succeed
with this baby test drive
why don't you ask Uncle Victor to hold the baby?
Yeah, that fat dude without a shirt on
eating that burger and drinking that can of beer
God, I want to be that guy
no one ever asks him to hold the baby
damn family reunions

How About Those Old Folks...?

Ah old people. They conjure to mind black and white photos, Goldbond itch powder and dentures...also, smells of soap, disinfectant and moth balls. At first thought, it would seem that geriatrics are quite possibly the most awkward of all age demographics. 8ut upon closer inspection, do the geezers have us all fooled? Onward Awkward investigates...

So today, I was grabbing brunch at a diner frequented by the more senile set. Glasses and walkers, dentures in cups of yellowing icewater (gross?) and silver blue tinted tresses dominated the scenery that lingered inches on top of cholesterol packed hashbrowns and concrete pancakes (which are apparently now referred to as hotcakes, which seems slightly redundant, but whatevs). Anyway, these two old guys grumpily ordered and their meal arrived within minutes while we sat, young and fully-toothed, waiting...and waiting...and waiting. Their order was fast, but not quite fast enough for the two old-timers who muttered bitter nothings and groggled death rattles from some dark mucus addled chamber within. Instead of the waitresses annoyed eyerolls that I've grown expectant of, the old folks received a sincere apology and an inquiry about the state of their french fries. Are they done well enough? The waitress asked fretfully. They both prodded their once-at-some-point potatoes wiyh gnarled fingers and grumbled yes. Their fries had been fried to perfection. The color of their french fries was mouthwatering and I grew envious as I watched them slowly eat a sixteenth of these impeccably produced frites. You could just tell these fries are just right...crispy on the outside, soft and warm within. Well what the fuck? Because they're old, the fryer at some dipshit 2 buck plate diner gets used properly? While the rest of us suffer for wilted, green strings of insta-tots that taste more like the plastic bag they came in than the potato treats they should be? I smell injustice and canola oil.

And then I remembered a story an exboyfriend told me about his crazy grandmother. He explained that she would frequently steal items from pharmacies, speed (? I know) and make insanely inappropriate comments all under the guise of being 'a little old lady'. And it hit me that maybe old people aren't that awkward afterall. If you can excuse the pants-shitting and phlegm tissue wads, the HUHS? And the stories that, like the Lambchop theme song, are literally unending, old people don't have it so bad. We, as a society, just seem to assume they are and so give them these ridiculous exceptions to rules that would never fly when applied to someone under the age of 60.

And so I sat eyeing the men's golden fries, wondering why it looked like my hashbrowns were sprouting, I realized that's why people don't kill themselves at 50. You see, you don't really live until you've got the world convinced your frail and weak and dreadfully old. No, that's where the fun begins. When you can make the Norms waitress your bitch, steal those new padded tube socks from aisle six and piss off that tattooed, speed loving 16 year old couple behind you by driving 26 on the 405. So next time you're asked to do some assinine thing for an old person, scope out the request. You feel like a jackass for asking staff to get that hemeroid cream for some old dude who just asked u, remember he's just old, not Helen Keller. And now you've got two irritated assholes.

I'm sorry but you really need to clean up that poop

Parks rules. I'm at home in New York City just kicking back and enjoying the silly trends and past times that this city offers. If you're a dog owner in New York you have probably heard of the dog parks, which are everywhere. They're similar to those places for human children, but used by the dogs of rich and childless workaholics in order for them to feel like parents but with out the extreme full time commitment. They're not actually playgrounds, but fields of dirt enclosed by fences because dogs don't understand invisible boundary lines.

So here I am, walking dogs for rich old ladies (it's good pay) and putting myself in the most awkward of situations. I mean, we all try to be these civilized people, wearing respectable clothes and bringing our dogs to this park to feel like we're a part of something special. Only a minute later, we're bending over to pick up our dog's shit with our hands which are only protected by a plastic bag. How dignified is that? I bet parents at the playground a block away don't have to apologize because their kid won't stop humping another kid in the middle of the park. But in the dog park everyone laughs. It's just animal nature they say. I sit next to a stranger and we both comment on how well our dogs seem to be getting along as they sniff and lick each other's nut sacks. A woman in the corner yells at her dog because he keeps eating another dogs' shit. Alas, a fight breaks out among the humans because one woman's dog took a dump and she hasn't cleaned it up. She claims she didn't notice it, but I think she did.

Cheesy Joke=Slow Painful Death, Motherfucker.

I dunno what it is about cheesy jokes. I work at this bookstore and a coworker of mine uses the cheesiest, corniest jokes I have ever heard. After each transaction, he'll say would you like a complimentary bag with that? Or someone will say rhetorically, There are so many books in here! To which he'll reply, well, "please buy them up, there's no limit here!" And I just sit there, wanting to join in in the unsolicited comments and say "Wow. You're a complete jackass." Now what gets me about cheesy jokes is that there is no end in sight. What I mean is that it is still politically incorrect to groan at a cheesy joke when someone who you aren't accquainted with recites one. Every time this goober says one, which is often, the customer always smiles and laughs. And I want to scream in bewilderment "Why are you laughing! You know that wasn't funny! Why are you perpetuating this horrifically un-funny (yes un-funny) dufus of a man? Just as it is in good form to tell someone when they have spinach or whatever-the-fuck in their teeth, one should be informed when someone is saying something that lacks any substantial humor. Plus, it's super fucking awkward! Not only do I feel umcomfortable after the joke's been said because uh, it's not funny? but also, I want to tell the customers that it wasn't funny either. I want to tell the douchebag who told it t never speak again. I want to rewind the scene and put the video on YouTube with subtitles encouraging everyone to NEVER EVER DO AS THIS MAN DOES! So maybe instead of laughing at the movie theater ticket ripper next time he says, "Time to get a watch!" after you breathlessly ask him the time because you fear you may have missed the opening of a movie, don't laugh the moron on. Why even give him the satisfaction of pretending that his 'funny' anecdote is, in fact, funny? Speak the truth. Be a good citizen. Look him dead in the eye and say "That was the corniest shit ever man. That was the opposite of funny and now I'm in a bad mood." Then maybe there could (finally) be an end to the cheesy joke as we know it.

Moving and Hans' Hairy Pits

So. The blog's been a bit stagnant recently. If I were to break down the cause of this problem into a percentage, I'd have to chalk this up to 98% laziness and 2% stress because I've moved. That's the great thing about this blog because all of a sudden, you've got cellophane wrapped around your face and a drawer just fell on your right foot and you're like "holy shit! This is completely fucking awkward! I can't wait to blog about this." Well, kind of. In all seriousness (or as serious as one can be here), moving really sucks. Let's see....it has been a blast waiting a day and half without food or water for a mattress that was scheduled to arrive yesterday during a 'one to five hour window' which ended up being an impromtu, makeshift episode of Urban Survivor where I forged for crumbs and ate popcorn kernels left behind by my mattress-endowed roomate and tried not to be phased by the mild hallucinations I was having thanks to the fresh paint job and heavy-duty cleaning supply stench that seems to occupy every new apartment. But starving and slightly high, I ended up smoking a half pack of cigarettes, pacing the lot of my tiny abode roughly 40+ times, and actually jumped for joy when the mattress men showed up (that sounds a bit off, huh? mattress men...) a few minutes ago . Anyway, the 'mattress men' showed up and there are two guys, one of which I've presumed is named Joe, and the other looks like, get this, an over-sized Kiebler elf. Ok, I know you're thinking wow, who the fuck cares about this story, everyone hates moving, get over it. Or: Yeah, moving's awful so why would I want to relive it through you're snarky little opinionated rant? But the whole point of this story is this overgrown Kiebler Elf. He is by far, hands down, the hairiest fucking person I have ever seen. His hair is the color of a new penny and it's insanely frizzy. But it isn't the hair on his head that's got me thrown. He has the hairiest pits I have ever seen. It looks as if he's about to give a noogie to two ginger, friz headed toddlers. We're talking Don King-like hair. I mean, his pits are so hairy he could smuggle a small child across some illicit border in there. A kilo of coke, his stash of steroids. I just can't look away. With a twitch of his mandarin mustache, he smiled over my cheap mattress and said, "I'm Hans." I swear the bush under his arms reached out at me a little. Anyway, if I turn up missing, send help and check the pits.

On Jam Band Concerts: Is there such a thing as too awkward?

A few days ago, I had the wonderful experience of seeing Rusted Root, a band of which I was not very familiar with pre-concert. Yeah, I checked out their MySpace, heard that Matilda song, but I figured what the hell, a live show is a live show right?

Unless it's a jam band.
Unless everyone there is wearing khaki shorts or pants or pants too short to be pants and too long to be shorts.
Unless the median age is 35 and everyone smells like patchouli and scalp.
Like I said, unless it's a jam band.

I mean, this was just definition awkward. There was the white people dancing moves--you know, the snapping fingers-stiff legs-planted feet-saying 'yeah', 'yeah' with your eyes closed-twisting hip-less hips-rythymless kind of dance. Instead of a mosh pit, there was a 'circle of love'. And beyond all of this, there was a severe lack of personal space. What I mean is that when one enters a jam band show, you forfeit your right to boundaries. I learned this pretty quickly when this hippy bitch hopped up on sun-grown bud came up to me, grabbed my hand and tried to drag me into her cultish, circle of love deal. And when, of course, I recoiled as I would from a hot flame, she gave me the dissapointed hippy look. This look, cleverly crafted, says 'you negative asshole, you're the reason peace doesn't work.' And I must say as horrible and boring as the show was (I actually had to stop myself from lying down in the middle of the desolate floor--where I'd nearly been killed months before at a much more exciting, energetic, and comfortingly black-clad Adicts show--because the band's jam sessions just wouldn't fucking stop.) My friend and I were the 'negatives' dressed entirely in funeral colors (worse yet, one of us wore a Highway to Hell shirt and a gun necklace.) Why we had to stay to the end I'm not sure, maybe it was the fact that we'd spent money to be spiritually assualted by middle-aged NGOers on a weekend night; stoned off ganja brownies and patting us to "move a little, man." Anyway, I'm sure someone somewhere likes Rusted Root and their shows, but the whole time I just couldn't get over the awkward scene. It was on another level. It is officially the first thing I have deemed as too awkward--who knew there was such a thing...

Yeah, yeah, it's been a while...

Sorry.

Hipster Olympics

Which brings us to the more important question: What do you call the people who make fun of and poke fun at the awkward or mockward societal demographics? 'Kward Anthropology? In either event, this is awesome.