Sunday, December 26, 2010

My Ideal Girlfriend

I know there's a long list of hopefuls lining up on The Nerd Archives to have my hand in marriage. Some of you are women. Some of you are men. Some of you are artificially intelligent robots with recently installed reproductive organs like Robin Williams in that movie Bicentennial Man and now oh God I'm thinking about that movie and I want to cry it was so sad don't watch it or you'll be depressed for like two years. But the bottom line is that there are a lot of you and I need a way to sort out which ones of you are serious about it and which ones just want to date me for my money.

So here's a list of qualities for my ideal girlfriend:

1) Both Jewish and naturally blonde. I know that's unlikely, so I suppose you can be half-Jewish if you really want to. I think Jewish girls are totally spicy, but I need to marry a blonde girl so our baby can have hair like James Spader in Pretty in Pink (which is NOT a chick flick!)

2) It's kind of pushing it to go even further with the nationality bit, but it really would be awesome if she was also from either Europe or Russia. Yeah...Russia. That's sexy. Preferably she would speak in kind of broken English.

3) I don't really need a stunningly beautiful girlfriend, but it's true that looks are more important to me than they should be. I don't want to have to close my eyes while we make love. In fact, it would be quite nice to have a stunningly beautiful girlfriend. Chauvinist pigs: UNITE!

4) I'd like my girlfriend to be a bit slow. Not too slow, though. Just slow enough that I don't have to feel stupid talking to her. I'm intimidated by intelligent women. She should be into poetry/art/literature, but I still need to be able to trick her into sex.

5) I think it's best if she's not a Psych fan. As much as I love(d) that show, I can't let her realize that I occasionally steal jokes from it.

6) She needs to have a stellar taste in music. The Beatles, Vampire Weekend, and Michael Jackson being the minimum qualifications. I don't think I'd ever date an avid Elvis fan. And there's no room for Lady Gaga or Katy Perry in my house. She can't listen to pop unless she wants to be beaten half to death every night before we go to bed. (Don't worry--I mean that in a completely sexual way.)

7) At the very least a half-decent writer

8) Not taller than me or more physically aggressive than me in any way whatsover (am I sounding insecure right now?)

9) Although I know it 's unlikely that I'll ever chance upon a girl who's more than moderately athletic, it'd be sweet if she was into exercise, just like jogging and aerobics. Ooh, and yoga!

10) A fan of Dustin Hoffman, Tom Hanks, and Johnny Depp but not just because she thinks any of them are hot. And decent movie knowledge. She has to have seen Psycho, The Breakfast Club, Stranger than Fiction, and The Fisher King.

11) Intense blue eyes that make me feel as though my heart is being run through with a magic sword every time I stare into them

12) I think it'd be awesome if she just dabbled into bisexuality. Not a serious bisexual, but maybe she kissed a chick at this one slumber party at the conclusion of a pajama-clad pillow fight. Or she participated in an all-girl spin-the-bottle game just this one time half a year ago.

13) Speaks French, but isn't snobby about it

14) Can't be too rich--preferably her financial background is somewhere around upper middle middle class

15) Middle name Bailey

16) More of a dog person than a cat person, but has the ability to appreciate a good kitten

17) Is totally finished with orthodontics. (I'm still cringing from that one scene in Date Night with Tina Fey and her retainer because it's so foreseeable in my future.)

18) Can appreciate her man for his calf muscles and forearms, not just his chest and abs--because, baby, that's all you have to look forward to.

19) Plays an instrument

20) A pretty good dancer

21) Good teeth

22) She has to look cute while she's eating a watermelon. You may laugh, but that's important to me. I think it's good to have a healthy appetite, but not so that it's repulsive.

23) If her name was Sarah, I would totally dig that. I love that name like unmarried single mothers love men named Craig. Yeah, I'm adding that onto the list. My ideal girlfriend would be named Sarah. ATTENTION: the alternate spelling of that name (Sarai) is also acceptable and even welcome

24) Can't judge me because I like musicals

25) Obedient; willing to shut up and do what her man tells her to do when it comes down to it

26) Has a penis

Okay, not really the last two things. But besides that, this was a pretty decent list, right? Not too picky. How many contestants are left? Nine? Ten? Eleven, even? Hello? Where is everybody? Oh, come on! It wasn't that bad!

Fine, it was pretty bad. I think I lost it at "you have to have seen The Fisher King." This list is just what my girlfriend would be like in a perfect world, though. Realistically, you shouldn't beat yourself up too much if nothing on this list applies to you. As long as you're really pretty, thin, tan, well-toned, intelligent, artistic, creative, and witty, you shouldn't give up.

Odds are, though, that I'm going to end up marrying an alien. I'm a nerd, and I find that idea totally attractive. Lara Flynn Boyle in Men in Black II was my major celebrity crush until I turned twelve (and discovered Christian Bale.)

Well, this has been productive. This post was conceited, rude, vulgar, and altogether too shocking.

As I've mentioned 1-3 times before this, I'm leaving for Texas early tomorrow morning. I'll be back Saturday--and by that time, I'll be three inches taller and I'll have killed a man. If you haven't read the post below this one, I just posted it a few hours ago so go ahead take a gander if it floats your boat. Until next time: to infinity and beyond!

Happy Holidays!

That Blond Guy

Saturday, December 25, 2010

John Lennon's Christmas Single is Way Better Than Paul McCartney's

Happy holidays, my tiny Christmas elf friends!

Did everyone have the fantasticalicious Christmas I told you to have on Christmas Eve's Eve? To those of you who have been bound to a chair with Christmas lights and your mouth taped shut as a result of a particularly wild Christmas party, blink once for yes and twice for no.

Great! I had a splendid Christmas, thanks for asking. At 8 o'clock on Christmas Eve, I acolyted at my Church, got home at around 10:00 and lay on my driveway watching the stars for about half an hour, and then watched A Christmas Story with my beautiful family. Just kidding! (They're not really that beautiful.) Peter Billingsley (Ralphie) was so adorable. Did you catch him in Elf?

I had a good Christmas Day as well. It began with a lot of excitement, a fair amount of presents, loads of snow, and ended with a Christmas feast fit for a king. (Probably not fit for a Roman king, though. Or any recent king. It'd have to be a pretty early king. Maybe an Anglo-Saxon king from the late third century or so.)

Once again, we failed horribly at making this a simple Christmas. Ah, well, it's too late to complain now. I'll just have to be even more firm with my family next Christmas. Like, I might need to fire a gun into the air a couple of times. Not a real gun, of course. A flare gun, maybe.

I received:

  1. Two picture books in Spanish
  2. Push-up stands, (so I can sculpt my body to the point that I rarely leave the bathroom because I spend so much time looking at myself naked in the mirror.)
  3. The Prophet, by Kahlil Gibran
  4. The Trouble with Poetry, by Billy Collins
  5. A second slinky just for the sake of it
  6. The John Lennon issue of Life magazine
  7. A ten-minutes-a-day French workbook and CD

Like I said, we struggle with the concept of a simple Christmas. I feel so guilty.

It also snowed for the entire second half of the day. By about five in the afternoon, there was a layer of white coating almost everything in sight like white cake frosting coating a brand new Christmas iPhone. Unfortunately, "almost everything" does not include the roads, so we had no opportunity to go sledding down any hills in our laundry basket and/or trash lid this year.

In addition, New Years Day is only five days away! Consequently, the first anniversary of The Nerd Archives is fast approaching. I started this blog mid-January of 2010. I was two inches shorter, considerably quieter, very naive, and I still wore glasses full-time. Since then, I've almost totally lost my faith, spoiled my innocence, improved greatly at writing, and had sex-change surgery on two different occasions. (It's hard to make up one's mind about these things!)

I love New Years. The night before you get to stay up late and do fun stuff that people do while staying up late like telling scary stories and eating s'mores. Plus, the concept of the beginning of a new year is liberating. It's so invigorating to think of all the new opportunities. New beginnings. A fresh start. Forget the past, let's embrace the future.

Mostly, I like it because we have this tradition where we hire a cowgirl stripper to give one of us a lapdance. That stuff about new beginnings was good too, though.

Let's take a look at my resolutions last year:

1) No consumption of beef, pork, or exotic game: CHECK!

2) Spend more time outside: CHECK!

3) Detach the things I don't really need in life: CHE--okay, no, not really.

4) (I can't believe I said this.) Become a better person: no, definitely not.

Was my ultimate New Year's resolution really to become a better person? I was such a cliché. And I still am. But remember: a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.

I'll be in Texas for the next week or so. I'll try to squeeze out one more post before I leave tomorrow, and then it's Hasta la Vista, my precious leprechaun minions. In the words of Conan O'Brien, "keep cool, my babies:" I'll be back Saturday.

Happy Holidays!

That Blond Guy

Thursday, December 23, 2010

Happy Christmas! Have a Cookie, But Not from That Plate--Those Cookies are Poisonous

Why am I baking a mixture of cyanide and hand soap into my cookies for Santa, you might ask? Well, I'll tell you, small Christmas elf with learning disabilities and abusive parents.

I'm trying to kill Father Christmas. What can I say? I'm a warrior for Christ.

On that happy note, I wish you all a Happy Christmas Eve Eve! If you're wondering why I'm wishing you a happy Christmas instead of a merry one, it's because I'm going British on this blog. Although I'm still in the process of learning all of the hip British lingo, I'm going to start spelling words like "civilisation" with an "s" instead of a "z," and I'm going to start spelling "favourite" with a "u" even though my conscience tells me it's so wrong. I'm also going to start using the word "b****" more, but that's because I'm a bitter teenager, not because I'm going British.

For Christmas, I'm getting each of my family members an empty box with a note taped to the outside that says "Ha ha, I didn't really get you a Christmas present. You were so excited but now you're going to be disappointed because there's nothing here. It's a joke, get it?" They're going to be laughing their heads off. Just wait.

I haven't drafted a super-duper Nerd Archives Christmas post spoiling all of your Christmas moods by criticizing every aspect of Christmas and making numerous racist remarks...because I've already done it for Sarcasmic Ross over at Consumable Sarcasm! Check out my guest post tomorrow, on Christmas Eve, and then send me a Christmas present addressed to just "That Blond Guy."

I'm flying to see my grandparents two days after Christmas, so if I don't get to give any of you goodbye kisses before then: GOODBYE!

If you're having trouble getting into the Christmas mood, I want you to listen to the following holiday songs:

Happy Christmas, by John Lennon

Santa Baby, by Eartha Kitt

Run Rudolph Run, by Chuck Berry

Happy Christmas to all of my beautiful followers! I love you all so much and I hope you never leave me!

That Blond Guy

Sunday, December 19, 2010

I Dance When No One Is Looking and my Hair is a Literal Chick Magnet

I have a remarkably brief and yet shocking confession to make:

I love ballroom dancing.

There, I said it.

To awkwardly and unprofessionally change the subject from the disturbing announcement made earlier in this post, I might inform you that my favorite thing about myself is my hair. My second favorite part of me is my left ankle, followed closely by my belly button and both of my nipples. But for now, we're just talking about my hair.

I am not generally a very attractive person. My nose is a bit large. My eyes are too small and my brow protrudes too much over them. I'm kind of scrawny and my tongue is a violent shade of orange. In fact, if I was bald, then I would be about as attractive as the shriveled-up demon baby from The Omen.

My hair is an anchor for me. My life is unstable--at any moment I could be thrown out of my house by my parents, beaten to death by a delirious homeless man, or raped and mugged by a violent metrosexual who literally thinks he's Reese Witherspoon. But one thing I'll always know for sure is that a) I'll never go bald and b) I have pretty nice hair.

You may call me arrogant. You may call me self-centered. You may even call me a stuck-up, self-absorbed, Nazi a******. I am a little bit of all of those things, but you have to remember that I don't have many talents or features that I can pride myself in. I get mediocre grades, I'm a decent writer but not a prodigy, I have an extreme lack of social skills, I'm not athletic, and I'm not the best artist in Drawing 1. But my hair is my strength. My one good thing. It is a mane of golden sunshine bestowed upon me by God Almighty. It is trustworthy, soft, clean, obedient, soft, machine-washable, soft, soft, soft, soft, and soft. And it's all I have to hold onto.

And, as I mentioned in the title, it is a chick magnet. Unfortunately, it's a chick magnet in the most literal and regrettable sense possible. Females in general (including overweight, middle-aged mothers) are constantly asking me how I bleach my hair. At random points during my day girls will seize fistfuls of my hair and just sort of feel it for a bit.

Last night, for instance, one girl did just that. She grabbed my hair and yelled "Your hair is so soft!" For the next five minutes or so, girls would just walk up and massage my head, occasionally asking me whether or not I use conditioner and whether or not I blow-dry it.

Yeah, on second thought, I kind of wish I was bald. Then I could tattoo a giant black eyeball onto my head to freak out really tall people.

I watched the movie Cashback today. Truly a stupendous film. I'll let you read the plot synopsis and junk I just linked to on IMDb because I just don't have the willpower anymore to explain movies to people.

I will, on the other hand, tell you the three reasons I really loved this film:

1) Everyone was British except for the Swedish student and one guy I saw in the fifth scene who I think might have been an alien.
2) There were loads of naked women.
3) The main character really reminds me of myself. I know that's always what people say when someone has just read a good book or seen a good movie, but I go through life a lot like he does. I live for those "frozen moments" he talks so much about, and usually life just seems so overwhelming, that's my only way to deal with it. Also, I'm an artist. When I see a beautiful woman, I have that same urge to just rip off her clothes, throw her on the floor like a rag doll, and...draw her.

Does anyone else here watch Psych? Did you see the Christmas episode? Yeah, you hear that sound in the distance? Yes? That's the sound of Psych hitting rock bottom.

That Blond Guy

Friday, December 17, 2010

Have You Ever Wanted to Go Back in Time and Beat Yourself to a Pulp?

If not, do you:

  1. Ever want to go back in time and play the younger version of yourself in checkers and then do something really spontaneous halfway through the checkers game like loudly reciting passages from Dante's Inferno while having an epileptic fit?
  2. Ever want to go back in time and have a baby with some random Catholic nun so that when you go back to the future you can be the same age as your kid? (I don't know why I added in that bit about the nun, but doesn't it sound kind of hot?)
  3. Ever want to play "Johnny B Goode" on the electric guitar at your parents' Enchantment Under the Sea dance shortly after making out with your mother in the school parking lot?

I guess it would be sort of cool to do the last three things, but mostly I really want go back in time and really just demolish my past-self. "Why?" some of you might ask. Well, Vietnamese man with a pencil mustache and a mustache pencil, I'll tell you why.

I am clinically insane and bizarre ideas like this somehow appeal to me. Also, I'm way taller, stronger, and more ripped than I was 2-3 years ago, so I would take a remarkable amount of pleasure out of whipping the scrawny nerd a** of my past self. Also, I know that at that time, I had zero self-confidence and at present I enjoy taking advantage of people with low self-esteem. Also, I've been reading some of my old writing and some of my old posts and am disgusted by my charming innocence and boyishness. Also, I didn't take my meds this morning and feel like doing something dangerous and spontaneous. And because I've been hanging out with idiotic, private school teenage guys for the past seven hours, going back in time and beating myself up was what struck me as an exhilarating idea at the time that I thought up this post. Sounds like a half-decent video game plot too.

See this? First is a photograph of me now: calm, cool, collected, a little horny, but very pensive. The next is a picture of my fourth grade Halloween costume. I wasn't even cute. All the other kids dressed up as pirates, leprechauns, or Michael Jackson. Apparently I wanted to be a combination of Sid Vicious and Glenn Quagmire (seriously--what's the deal with that shirt?!)

Some people are haunted by memories of horrible mistakes they've made in life and missed opportunities. I'm haunted by memories of badly-landed jokes, mortifyingly embarrassing moments, and my even more socially awkward/insecure/weak-minded past-self.

Yes, I would not hesitate a moment in going back in time and beating myself up. A solitary punch in the face would probably do it, don't you think? Maybe a kick on the ribs while he's on the ground, but only for good measure.

If for some reason you're interested in learning the mildly intriguing philosophical message behind this bitter outburst of resentment at my past-self, I guess all I can say is that it's amazing how quickly people and things in general can change in such a short amount of time.

On a different note (D#), HAPPY CHRISTMAS BREAK TO ALL OF MY FELLOW TEENAGERS OUT THERE EXAMS ARE OVER HURRAY YIPPEE!!! To all of my readers who are out of school, well, you can just go and do something that grown-ups do, can't you? Like drinking. Or driving. Or watching scary movies. I don't know--what else do grown-ups do?

I'd also like to link to this Christmas post by Sarcasmic Ross just because he's so awesome I think my nose just got a little sun-burned by his sheer awesomeness.

Next, I'd like to conclude this lengthy and unconstrucive post by also linking to these four, generally unrelated videos which have amused me throughout exam week.

Church Mouse


Back to the Future, Screen Test Part 1

And of course: Back to the Future, Screen Test Part 2

Finally, I think it's worth mentioning that my comment on the official music video for Regina Spektor's "Fidelity," "Thumbs up for this comment if you, uh, like sex" has now received 78 votes. People are so stupid.

Happy Advent.

That Blond Guy

Wednesday, December 15, 2010

The Oedipus Complex and Brunette Preteens in Yellow Dresses

My highlight of this week was when me and two other guys were standing in the highway after an Academic Team practice and someone mentioned one of the questions about Sigmund Freud and the Oedipus Complex. One of the guys asked what the Oedipus Complex is. I said, "It's just what it sounds like, isn't it?" And he responded, "You wanna kill your dad and bang your mom?!"
Just as he said that, a junior walked right by us and that was all he heard. He glanced back at us with wide eyes and ran off without a word. Man, there are going to be some weird rumors flying around the school about me from now on.

More importantly, I want you to listen to this song by Cold War Kids: Hospital Beds. It's so hip it hurts. Like, literally. Don't listen to unless you're willing to experience some minor chest pains and abdominal discomfort.

On an unrelated note, I want to post the link to my Youtube Channel just because I need attention and my channel has been remarkably unsuccessful. I haven't been to make any real videos because I can't figure out how to work the camera and have had to resort to using my webcam. You can skip over the piano songs I wrote because I'm so awesome and gifted, but make sure you check out "A Moderately Relaxing Video" and then make sure you tell me how funny and charming I am.

It's cool, though, because I've never had a "Highest Rated Comment" on any of the videos and I was getting desperate for some recognition. So I went on to the official music video for "Fidelity" by Regina Spektor and commented,

"Thumbs up for this comment if you, uh, like sex."

And it actually worked--I have the highest rated comment!!!

Because all of you are desperate to know how I am, I'll go ahead and tell you I'm not doing so hot. It's exam week and I've been sick for the past two or three days, so of course I'm not in the best of moods. Also, my wife left me in the middle of the night last night and took the car, my son, and the house with her. She took everything--all I have left is a bare mattress and the clothes on my back. And a piece of cardboard I've been using as a blanket. Which makes me wonder whether or not I'm really just a delirious homeless man who had a crazy dream.

I want to add as a modest side note that I although I don't always comment, I do try to read all of your blogs as often as possible. It may not seem like it, but I'm always with you. I might be hidden in the bushes, or crouched down in your closet, or staring through your bedroom window while you sleep so that you can't see me, but I'm always with you. Watching you.

That Blond Guy

Sunday, December 12, 2010

I Feel Powerful Today: Like If I Wanted to I Could Marry a Man and Not Care What Anyone Thought

I signed on last night to write a post on The Nerd Archives. As stated on my gmail status, I was feeling "unexplainably depressed." I typed in only two sentences:

"I'm feeling so depressed. I think I'm going to take a walk."

But before I pressed the Publish button, I was struck by an intensely profound revelation: instead of signing on to whine to you all about my wimpy girl problems, multiple insecurities, and irrational fear of Elvis impersonators, I decided to first take that walk I was dragging on and on and on about in my un-published post.

The Other Guys is one of my favorites movies ("You thinking what I'm thinking?" "Aim for the bushes.") Will Ferrell is one of my favorite actors. But one of my favorite quotes happens after Terry finishes insulting the coworker who always gets him coffee and the coworker says in a really dejected voice,

"You know, you're right. I think I'm going to go take a walk."

Everyone knows that depressed people like taking walks (in addition to drinking, watching TV, and beating their wives.) What few people know is that it really works. It worked for the coworker in The Other Guys. It worked for Baby-Faced Nelson in O Brother Where Art Thou. It worked for, um, Nelson Mandela in Invictus. I guess that would sort of be a good example. Oh! It worked for Mrs. Salmon in Lovely Bones. Except she didn't really come back, did she?

I deleted the post I was writing, grabbed three jackets, fingerless mittens, and what I thought was supposed to be a sweatsuit but turned out to be thermal underwear, and I left for my walk.

It really is very liberating to go on a walk late in the evening when you're feeling down--especially when you're naked. Very few people are outside, and the few that are outside are usually just gardening or dealing drugs. It's chilly, which refreshes you and makes your mind alert. It's quiet. It's dark. Plus, I kept a plastic baggy of yogurt in my back pocket in case I ever got hungry.

And this morning, I'm feeling loads better. Last night we decorated the tree and watched Saw VI. This morning I made myself French toast and birthday cake. I'm listening to the Spirited Away soundtrack while writing this post. It's raining outside but I'm inside--which is my favorite thing in the world. I have my laptop back, I have Youth Group tonight, I have an exam tomorrow but I'm not worrying about it, and--finally--I have a beautiful naked woman laying in bed beside me and stroking my hair.

I'm feeling powerful. Invincible. Like I could do anything I wanted--even if it meant coming out of the closet or confronting my Social Studies teacher about his drinking problems and how it's hindering my ablity to learn.

If only more people in the world who do terrible things could just take a walk instead. We might not have wars, genocide, or STDs. Children wouldn't bully one another and gangs of homosexual men in prison nicknamed "The Sisters" wouldn't go around raping Tim Robbins and other convicts.

Why do girls/women describe men as "beautiful" sometimes instead of "handsome" or "hot?" They know we don't like it. It makes men sound like horses or Nicole Kidman's new haircut.

That Blond Guy

Thursday, December 9, 2010

Rihanna is a Satanist

Greetings, my tiny Smurf friends! Sorry it's been a while since I've posted. I've been hiding in my closet with a fishbowl over my head for the past few days so as to not get any germs before exam week.

I'll have you know that I'm in a superb mood today, for totally trivial reasons. 1) I'm now officially a member of the track team, 2) I turned in all of my entries to the school's literary magazine on time, and 3) I spoke to my dream girl today. Actually the conversation we shared went something like,

Me: "Hi."

Her: "She's just oblivious, isn't she?"

But that's all right. It was...enough for me.

...God, I'm a creep.

In other news, yes, exam week is approaching. I should have started studying about two or three weeks ago, but it's a struggle for me to get down to it, so I'll be lucky if I start today. I really should be studying right now, in fact, but I just don't have it in me. Every time I tell myself that, okay, now is the time to start studying, I get hungry and go get a snack. After that, I get another snack. After that, another. And another and another and then I listen to music for about half an hour while staring at one of my textbooks. Then I go to bed, because I look up at the clock and see that somehow it's already half past five in the evening.

I also found out last week that my sister doesn't know what the word "pimp" means. She's always been slightly innocent and naive, but this was worse than I expected. We were at the dinner table when my sister asked,

"Hey, Christopher, can you pass the peas?"


"Thanks, you're a real pimp."

The whole family was sort of quiet for a while and the rest of the family kind of shielded their eyes and exchanged glances. She noticed it and said, "What? It means he's a cool person! What else could it mean?!"

I don't know if it's a good or bad thing that she's like that.

Another highlight of the week happened in art class. The teacher lets us listen to music during class (or at least he doesn't stop us, because he's only in the classroom for about six minutes a day). So one person was listening to the song Umbrella by Rihanna. The guy sitting next to her asked what she was listening to. She told him that he was listening to Umbrella. The guy said, "Oh, yeah, that's an okay song. But you know Rihanna is a Satanist, right?"

Everyone in the class heard him too. I looked around with a giant smirk on my face, expecting other people to be equally amused and knowing. Instead, they were shocked and curious. They all asked him how he knew this. He said a friend of a friend told him that there were certain allusions to Satan and hell in the song. The entire class believed him without even quesitoning it. One person who usually despised him even said, "That's weird--she doesn't seem like the type."

It's pathetic! Believe are so gullible! No wonder Hitler's propaganda was so effective: people so easily accept what others say as true if it sounds true without questioning it. This is even worse, though. How could Rihanna be Satanist? Does she even know who Satan is? If someone asked her that, her response would be something along the lines of "Sounds like a real bad-ass rapper who knows how to party serious."

On an unrelated note, I'm giving up on the "30-Day Thing." It was too confusing, I think I did it wrong, and I'm insecure about my appearence. So I'm putting it to an end.

That Blond Guy

Saturday, December 4, 2010

"30 Day Thing"

I was sort of/kind of half-tagged by Kay of Cerulean Skies. So here goes. (Ooh, this is the first time I've done something like this. I've got butterflies.)

1) A picture of yourself and 10 facts:

(Here's a picture of me and President Obama posing cheek-to-cheek. He's a fun guy. Neither of us are staring into the camera because we both saw injustice occuring somewhere in the distance right before they snapped the photo.)

1) I went to speech therapy for half a year. Now people tell me I sound British. (Awright!)
2) I have a scar on my palm from when I tried to hop a barbwire fence in fifth grade.
3) I'm a triplet.
4) I see dead people.
5) I have a graphite pencil tip embedded in each of my hands--(long story, but not really).
6) I have an eclectic taste in music. In the nine or ten minutes before I wrote this post, I listened to songs on my iPod from the Rolling Stones, Regina Spektor, Finn Wallace, Wild Cherry, AC/DC, and Beethoven.
7) I order the same thing at every restaurant I go to. The trick is: just go to a bunch of different restaurants.
8) My biggest two fetishes are being British and being Jewish. My ideal wife would be both, (hopefully she would fall under the category of European women who actually shave their legs.)
9) I doodle so much during class, I've become known in my math class as "The Cartoon Kid."
10) I love romantic comedies.

2) How you got your blog name

Not a very interesting story. I'm a huge nerd and I needed some sort of theme to build on before I abandoned it like a three-legged dog at Krispy Kreme. This blog documents my life and my thoughts. Hence, "The Nerd Archives." Good story, yeah? Gonna tell is at the dinner table tonight?

3) Hometown location and facts

I live in Atlanta. It's a big city, so I don't think any of you are going to track me down and stalk me and/or rape me because you're such a huge fan of my blog. And the facts:

  • Home of both Coca Cola and the only aquarium in the world (besides Japan) that holds whale sharks. Jealous?
  • Atlanta is pretty much the gay capitol of the world. Rock on, babes!
  • I'm in a neighborhood filled with either really old people or young couples with babies. That actually works out, because I hate making friends, but love old people and babies!
  • My school is infamous (among private schools) for its drugs. Stupid rich white kids.
  • I have to drive at least twenty five minutes everywhere. Even to the bathroom.
  • Although I do live in Atlanta, I spend most of my time using my imagination to transport myself to the magical land of Narnia.

Like Kay, (who I will go on to mimic because I don't understand how these curious things work), I'll finish this later. I guess that's self-explanatory, because it's a "30 Day Thing," but...yeah.

That Blond Guy

Saturday, November 27, 2010

A Confrontation with a Varsity Football Player

Let me tell you something, sir.

Just because you're taller than me, and just because you have sex on school nights, DOESN'T mean you're cooler than me. I'm cool because I'm confident about who I am and because I have awesome hair. Seriously, when I run my hands through it, it's like having my fingers massaged by a million tiny angels. That's why I'm cooler.

And even though you can bench twice as much as me, I could still beat you up in a matter of seconds. I have fists of fury, and I know how to make a guy go unconscious by just jabbing the right pressure points on his neck. I totally learned it from Star Trek, man. So are you still so sure you want to mess with me?

One thing I'll have you know: it is UNACCEPTABLE to use the word "gay" as a derogatory term. The United States is the civil rights capitol of the world, so why are we still so prejudiced against homosexuals?

Another thing: surely lady bugs can't all be ladies! That's just stupid! Think about it!

I'll have you know, Mister Man, that you're not so great just because you have your own car. It's projected that in approximately twenty years, mass-transit will be the major means of transportation, not automobiles. How do you feel about that?

Fiona Apple has only two good songs. One of them is Across the Universe, which she didn't even write. The Beatles did! So why is she so great? Just because of Paper Bag? I don't think so! She always looks like she's crying, anyway. I just can't dig that in a lady, man.

If we colonized the moon and brought domesticated animals with us, what would dogs howl at during the night? Would they howl at the earth, maybe? Think about that, for a second, you giant a******!

So if you think you're so great, tell me this: what walks on four legs in the morning, two legs in the afternoon, and three legs in the evening? Answer me that! What's that? A human? Fine! But you only know that because of reading The Odyssey in English class freshman year! That's right, I know all of your secrets.

Why do natural disasters happen? Why is there genocide, discrimination, and war? If God is so caring, wouldn't he put a stop to that? Well, my friend, it's an act of nature and we'll never fully understand it.

I did NOT get that from The Happening!

Why do gangstas wear their pants so low? Seriously, it's not cool! It's weird. It makes me uncomfortable.

So here's something for you to wrap your fat head around, man: slugs have four noses! Also, the average American drinks 600 sodas a year. Also, all polar bears are left-handed. Also, a pig's orgasm lasts for 30 seconds! Can you get any of that into your thick skull?

To you, 500 Days of Summer may have been just another predictable romantic comedy, but to me it was a masterpiece. And I don't care how people judge me because of it. It had a fantastic script, was artistically filmed, and was finished far more skillfully than most films in its genres. Plus, its soundtrack was epic. Hall&Oates, The Smiths, Regina Spektor, and The Pixies!!!

How could you even begin to say that Elvis Presley was better than The Beatles? Ooooh, he's swingin' his hips back and forth a little and he has sideburns. Let's all worship him oooooh. That's you. I was just imitating you just a second ago. All of Elvis' songs sound just the same, man. John Lennon was a god. Elvis was a git.

You can't wear shorts and long sleeves at the same time. That's just tacky. It worked for that chick in the Cake song, but she was something special.

I hope you got something out of this little speech, buddy. I happen to know that your "girlfriend" is my soul mate. And I'm not afraid to fight you for her. Because, brother, she's spicy hot. She's both Jewish and blond. Which is awesome.

That Blond Guy

Friday, November 26, 2010

Dear Diary

I killed a guy today.

And I didn't feel a thing.

Nah, I didn't really. But that would be cool if I really did, right? What would you guys do?

About two weeks ago, my family had dinner with two members from my Dad's administrative board at school. I'm totally a NERD in the way that, half of the time, I find what adults have to say quite interesting. Unless it's about money, people I don't know, or their taste in 40's music, I actually think adults have way more interesting things to say than kids. I mean, we're going to be spending the rest of our lives with our generation. I'm going to get SO BORED of them. Adults are all about to die. Everyone knows that being about to die makes a person way more interesting.

One of the things one of the faculty members mentioned was how healthy it is to write in a journal. Psychologically, of course, not cholesterol-wise or anything. So that night, I decided to try it out.

I grabbed a flashlight and hunted under my bed for some at-least nearly empty diary I had been given for Christmas or my birthday decades before. I finally found one, covered in dust, from when I was in third grade. I had written three or four pages about how frustrated I was that I had turned eleven already and had not yet received a letter accepting me into Hogwarts. I tore out those pages, not considering it to be a priceless piece of writing, and started writing.

I'm usually motivated to write for the purpose of impressing others. It's true. You hear about people who need to write because they have no other choice and writing to them is as important as eating or drinking. Most of the time, I think this is hogwash. Balderdash. Cockroach clusters. (Say what?) If it's true, that's great. You'll grow up to be a little Charles Dickens, won't you? That's all very well.

For once in my life, I'm happy to be writing just for me. I don't have to censor it. I can curse all I want and not have to hide the fact that I sometimes fantasize about killing large numbers of people in gruesome ways. I can write anything I want as OFTEN as I want. It's awesome.

Then again, most of the pages are filled with the words "No work and no play make Christopher a dull boy." But I write some other stuff too.

Of course, I write about you guys all the time. Each and every one of you. And your phone numbers. And where you live. I've been studying you, you know.

Nah, just kidding. None of you mean anything to me whatsoever.

What was the point of this post? Because I want you to be curious about what's in my journal? No, I've already made the necessary precautions against curious people who want to read what I've written in my journal. The first two pages of the journal are filled with threats like,

"If you read this, your head will explode into a million pieces and you'll go to hell."

So I'm safe.

No, the point of this post is because I think all of you should try it too. I was especially tentative about writing in a journal because I'm already insecure enough about my manhood, and writing in a diary is kind of wimpy. But I don't think about it like that anymore! I think of it like I'm a disciple of Jesus or an astronaut stranded in space and I'm recording what happens in my life for the sake of the greater good...

Or something.

That Blond Guy

Thursday, November 25, 2010

Kitten Assassins and the Return of the Slinky


My God, I love kittens so much. I wouldn't mind being assassinated by a kitten. I really wouldn't. It would be a quick death, and there would be kittens involved. The only thing that would make it even better would be if Jesus turned out to be a kitten. That'd be awesome. Jesus was a feline, but that was edited out of the Bible because everyone was embarrassed by it. And a bit ashamed.

I hope everyone had a great Thanksgiving yesterday! I know I did. (Ha ha ha.) I heard Obama pardoned two turkeys from being slaughtered and eaten for Thanksgiving dinner. Oh, yes, very funny, Obama. I bet all of the prisoners lining up for death row just loved that.

For Thanksgiving, I worked a lot. Then I ate food, and then I ate pie. Then a few hours passed. Then for dinner, I ate a turkey sandwich and some more pie. Then, about fifteen minutes later, I ate more pie. Two hours later, I caved and ate some more pie. Then I went to bed. Then, at about 12:15 at night, I woke up, went downstairs, and ate some more pie. Then I cried because I couldn't stop.

How was your Thanksgiving?

The title of this post is "Kitten Assassins and the Return of the Slinky." I've already covered the kitten assassins part with that photo of a kitten with a gun pointed out the window and a caption explaining my bizarre obsession with little kittens doing cute things. Then I mentioned "the Return of a Slinky." That implies that the slinky has at one point in the month and three days since I got it left my hands. This is a lie.

That slinky means the world to me. If I was meat, the slinky would be my salt. If I was a pancake, it would be my syrup. If I was a baby, that slinky would be my binky. If I was an elderly, single man, that slinky would be my Vi...never mind. No, I wasn't about to say Viagra! I was going to say...uh...violin! Old single men play the violin a lot! It's true! Look it up! I read it in a book.

I never part from it. I could not survive without it. I'm addicted. It's the truth.

Unfortunately, it also feeds the minute, ADHD side of me.

This morning I needed to make breakfast. I walked downstairs, (with my slinky), and got some bread from the bag with my free hand. It took me about a minute and a half to get the bread into the toaster, because I was so busy watching my slinky. When I finally got it in, I was playing with my slinky for three minutes while the bread toasted. Once it popped out and I had to spread jelly on it, I had absolutely no willpower to put the jelly on the bread. I just couldn't bring myself to do it.

I stood there for ten minutes with my slinky before I could bring myself to spread the jelly.

It's sad. I need help.

Are you freaked out that a 5'11 high schooler is still playing with a slinky and is excited about it? Are you thinking bad things about me, mama?

Happy Thanksgiving-Was-Yesterday!

That Blond Guy

Sunday, November 21, 2010

Episcopal Church Retreats Are So Cool It Stings A Little Somewhere Around My Ankles

I am proud to be an Episcopalian.

I am not proud of all of the other things I can be described as. Namely: an asthmatic, a blond person, a Madonna fan, a sensitive male, and a closet homosexual. But I am proud, by God, to be an Episcopalian.

Among infinitely other admirable characteristics of the Episcopal Church, we have stellar church retreats. I discovered this over the course of this last weekend which I spent at Kanuga. Specifically, I discovered it while sitting fully clothed in the bathtub and eating Butterfinger bars, but who really needs to know those details?

I spent the entirety of Friday, Saturday, and Sunday morning singing catchy Christian songs, dancing to Twist and Shout, reading in my cabin, playing with my slinky, attempting high ropes courses, hiking, and mostly just hitting shamelessly on girls in the Youth Group.

Friday night I watched Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows with the rest of the Youth Group. It was going to be a good experience even before it happened because 1) some random guy in the row in front of me told me he would be there for me if I ever needed him and 2) the girl next to me warned me that she might hug me very tightly if she got scared. Unfortunately, two minutes before the movie started, her eighth grade brother sat down in the same seat as her and said "Mind if I plunk down here?" so I never got to experience that first-hand. It was okay, though, because THE MOVIE WAS AWESOME!

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Trailer

I have never before liked a Harry Potter movie. They all pick what they like from the books and abandon the rest like vultures feeding off the ribcage of a dead possum. So I had low expectations. This one, on the other hand, was really brilliant. I would elaborate by saying "Now, I don't want to spoil the movie for anybody" and then spoiling it, but I genuinely don't want to ruin the movie for any of my precious readers. Just MAKE SURE that you see the movie, and be watching out for a really awesome animation about the Three Brothers and Emma Watson naked.

I spent most of Saturday on a high ropes course with three of the funniest ropes course instructors I saw during that entire week. The funniest one had an awesome beard too. I would seriously steal it while he was sleeping if I got the chance.

I've always liked rock climbing, ropes courses, and other things of that sort. (Well, when I say "always," I mean after I learned to wait at least a few minutes before I started screaming for my mother.) I wouldn't call myself a fan of those harnesses you always have to wear, though. Not only do they look really dorky, but they're always so insensitive to one's privates. Why are they so inconveniently located so that that's where the rope yanks up on you when you fall off the course? Ah, well. In spite of that, I had a lot of fun there.

That afternoon, I hiked to a rock with lots of lady bugs. Yeah, uh, that's that.

Saturday night, they had this "Enchantment Under the Sea" dance where everyone either dressed up like it was prom night or along with the sea theme. Or, if you were like me, you wore a button-up shirt and a hoodie.

I usually hate dances or anything that involves expressing any emotion at all, but I had a lot of fun with this one. They played oldies the whole time because we're Episcopalians (so most of us are old people). So, of course, I loved the music. I was dancing the whole time like a wild Michael Jackson grizzly bear. Embarrassingly, I had never before heard the song "Play That Funky Music, White Boy," so I accidentally mixed the lyrics up a little and was singing "Play That F****** Music, White Boy," because that's what I thought everyone else was singing, no matter how strange it was. Fortunately, I think it was too loud for anyone to hear me.

I also slow-danced with the rector's daughter. The rector was wearing a pink coat which made him look, (as my dad described it), like a "gay lion tamer."

Overall, it was a pretty awesome trip, especially 'cos I had my slinky along for the ride.

Yet another discovery I made during the retreat: girls like it when you tell them they smell nice. I have nine cell phone numbers and the loss of my virginity to prove it!

Anyone else as eager as I am for Thanksgiving? (A: No!) It just irks me how everyone's so eager for Christmas that they're skipping over Thanksgiving...

That Blond Guy

Thursday, November 18, 2010

Thumbs Up for Little Blue Bearded Men Drawn with a Four-Colored Pen

All of these women are going to have my children some day. Granted, we're living in an alternate universe in which the last two women on this list are still young and beautiful as opposed to old, wrinkly, and the voice parts for Tommy Pickles in Rugrats.

This will have to be an incredibly short post considering I'm leaving for a church retreat tomorrow and I haven't packed yet.

In fact, so short that it's ending here.

This was pointless.

That Blond Guy

Sunday, November 14, 2010

Better Off Sledd

That title has absolutely no connection to this post. I wanted to make a play on the 80's comedy film Better Off Dead with John Cusack with the working title Better Off Red and make a joke about Native Americans in casinos, but I figured I'm already looking racist because my poll so far says all of my readers are white. Sledd, I'll have you know, is a surname that ranks #32822 in the United States. That's not an easy word to make a joke about, mind you.

"Ha ha. Better Off Sledd. Like a sled except it's a last name and it's spelled differently..."

Special messages I have for some people today:

If you're Lizzie: Are you alive? I'm thinking about you.

If you're Alex: That doesn't merit a reply.

If you're Danielle or someone who knows Danielle: Well, I hope not. That would be totally awkward 'cos I just wrote a love poem to you a few posts down.

If you're that kid who I ridiculed because of the way you sneezed: I'm really sorry, man. It's totally normal to sneeze blood and then brag about it to your buds in the locker room.

If you're that hick with the pick-up truck who drove by the Brake Pad and made fun of me for having nice hair: I'm still trying to think of a come-back for that one. So you just be ready, Mister Man.

Onto business!

I've chosen the worst possible choice of seats in art class. We're sketching this still-life of reflective objects, transparent objects, and cloth; and I'm sitting next to this insanely annoying sophomore who--although very popular--is I think mentally challenged.

We have these erasers that you can mold into any shape. About two weeks into the school year, he molded one of them into a slice of pie and shoved it into my face saying "It's pie! See? It's pie!" and demanding that I eat it. I laughed nervously and shrugged him off, but he persisted. After fifteen minutes of that, he finally shouted, ""Eat the pie, a******!"

Speaking of peculiar characters with Martini addictions and Hitler mustaches, a strange thing happened today:

I had about two and a half minutes before the late bell for sixth period rang, but I had also just downed six gallons of pink lemonade to impress a bunch of Varsity football players who were giving me the eye, so I ran into the bathroom really quickly. There was another guy in there, so I just ignored him as is custom. I used the restroom and darted out without washing my hands. Naughty, I know, but I was seriously pressed for time.

But before I could leave, I heard a voice shriek "Gross!" behind me. I swiveled around and there was that kid, (still with a hand crammed down his pants).

"You're not going to wash your hands?!" he asked incredulously.

"What? These?" I said, indicating my hands. "Nah, these aren't hands. These are prosthetic."

He must not have been all right in the head, though, because he didn't seem to hear me. Instead, he pointed forcefully at the sink, (with the hand that was not still down his pants secretly massaging his privates), and said "You just touched your penis! Wash your hands!"

I was too stunned to do anything except wash my hands obediently and thoroughly, give him a fearful look, and arrive two minutes late to math class.

He's probably still standing there. One hand still, you guessed it, down his pants.

To all Psych fans out there: YES!!! My life is finally complete. They could have done it to something besides an Elvis song, but if it had to be an Elvis song, they picked a good one.

That Blond Guy

Wednesday, November 10, 2010

Brazilian Cookie-Makers and Teenagers Who Still Like Playing House

People, stop trying to guess how old I am.

In the past few weeks--pretty much all of a sudden--bloggers and other Internet-users have been asking me how old I am via e-mail, Formspring, comments on my blog, or mysterious, raspy phone calls made under the alias of "Deep Throat." And it's really starting to annoy me.

When I was a kid, my parents impressed only a few things on me. Examples being:

A. Leaves of three, let it be.
B. If you masturbate, your hands will grow fur.
C. Never gamble with 5'4 Irish-American men named Finn. They
will double-cross you.

Another thing they constantly told me was to not reveal too much about myself to strangers on the internet. Yes, it's true that this probably doesn't apply now. Yes, I am just being paranoid. BUT REMEMBER, you're not being paranoid if there really is a hooded man with a knife stalking you whenever you're alone. So in my case, I'm not paranoid.

I have on two occasions told a stranger directly how old I was on the internet. The first was a Brazilian teenage girl with a blog about baking cookies back in my Review Raves and Some Other R Word days. She spoke little English but immediately began hitting on me for the same reason that all Internet users flirt with total strangers on the Internet: they imagine them good-looking: tan and well-toned. Eventually she asked, "How old are you?" I told her and she said "I'm sorry, Christopher. We cannot be together. Can we be friends?" as if I was the one hitting on a total stranger.

The second instance something like this happened was when I mentioned what city I live in on The Nerd Archives. Another blogger told me she lived in the same city and asked me if I had a Facebook, iChat, MySpace, Twitter, and other social networking sites which I personally don't have even though my better-looking, more charming alter-ego Brent does have. I told her I had e-mail. She then asked me how old I was. I told her. About a week later, I was bombarded with questions from kids on my basketball team who went to the same school as her and were all under the impression I was dating her. A day after that, she invited me to go to an inter-mural dance with her. Half a month later, she at least considered us boyfriend and girlfriend.

We went on "dating" for several months during which she swayed between irritatingly clingy and remarkably detached. It was during these months that she put me on speakerphone with about a dozen strange teenage girls from her summer camp, four of which called me an "asshole" simultaneously when I refused to tell them that I loved this girl. After three or four months, this girl said she was leaving the state for boarding school and called me, tearful, saying that she just knew I was going to break up with her because she was leaving. I said that was silly and scheduled a "date" for the next week. Several hours before it happened, she called me, cancelled, and refused to answer her phone or e-mail for the next two weeks. After that, I received a curt e-mail explaining why we couldn't "be together" because "fate was conspiring against us."

We didn't talk for the duration of that summer. At one point, I was so filled with irrational guilt that I sent her a letter saying how I could have been a better "boyfriend" during our "relationship." She left ten messages on my phone and sent me three e-mails and later sent me a letter explaining how the reason she left me was because she liked me too much and decided to lock her emotions away by not talking to me.

We agreed to meet at an art museum in Downtown after a couple of weeks of very friendly and apologetic phone calls. I showed up. She was her usual self for the first hour or so: chipper, peculiar, and especially blatant in her complaints about me. The next few hours, she became quiet, reserved, and she refused to walk with me. At her house, I had to talk to her brother more than I talked to her. (A bad thing--her brother despised me.)

She didn't even say goodbye to me when I left.

When I tried to call her after that day, she always sound polite but impatient to get off the phone. At one point, I called her and she answered the phone with "What do you want?" I took the hint then and haven't called her since. It's been three or four months since I've talked to her.

During the relationship, I had to pinch myself every morning to convince myself that this was a real relationship and that I liked this girl. That I liked this girl who deserted me once, wrote me a letter saying how she had truly loved me all along, then deserted me again little more than a month later. This girl who clung onto me when she needed me and took off whenever it was the other way around. This girl who was apparently horrified and guilty by the fact that she had sex with her boyfriend before me, who she made out to be a brutish idiot and, less than a week after she "broke up with me," they did the same thing on the school bus one bright Monday morning.

Maybe this is why I don't like telling my age. Not because I'm afraid you'll all want to date me. Because I'm paranoid and psycologically wired to think that next time I tell anyone on the internet my age, another eight months that could have been perfect will be stolen from my fingertips. Other human beings hate dogs because they were bitten by a rabid Rottweiler as a child. I don't like telling my age to other people on the internet.


Check out my Regina Spektor post below this one if you haven't already. It's long, erotic, and at least moderately amusing.

ALSO, vote on the poll at the top of the right sidebar. I don't even have enough willpower to tell you what it is.

That Blond Guy

Saturday, November 6, 2010

My Long-Lasting and Very Intimate Relationsith Regina Spektor w

I'm pretty sure we all have one celebrity in particular who we invest some time in drooling over and whose pictures we gawk at for ninety seconds at a time. A celebrity who you rave about to your friends and they'll be just like "Uh...I guess she/he's okay" or "Whoozat?" A celebrity who you've built a shrine to in both your bedroom and in one corner of your pantry which no one ever looks at because that's where your family keeps all of the three-year-old, multi-grain breakfast bars. A celebrity who you dress up as every time you're in the house alone while you pleasure yourself in the bathroom.

Actually, I'm not so sure we all have that kind of celebrity. Yeah. Awkward.

For me, that celebrity is Regina Spektor. Folk-punk-rock-Jewish-Russian-classical-jazz-hip hop musical artist behind Fidelity and Better. Native to Russia but American citizen. Three times the winner of the Best Music Ever Recorded Time Infinity Award and recently declared Empress of the Universe.

But what do these achievements and silly titles mean? Most importantly, Regina Spektor is a pretty face.

Not just one pretty face. More like fifty.

There's her single-mother-half-time-waitress-at-Arby's-and-still-hotter-than-ever face:

There's her just-finished-exercising-even-though-I'm-naturally-fit face:

And then, of course, her frightened-but-still-beautiful-Russian-immigrant face:

Her Soviet-Kitsch face(s):

I love that one. And finally, her hey-look-at-me-I'm-pretending-to-be-a-mouse-I'm-so-adorable-let's-get-married-face:

Yeah, I guess that one's more up for interpretation.

Regina Spektor's song are all masterpieces. Every. Last. One. Of. Them. From Samson to Somedays. From Pavlov's Daughter to Poor Little Rich Boy. From Chemo Limo to Carbon Monoxide. From The Call to The Calculation. From Ode to Divorce to Oedipus.

And yes, I really am just showing off my knowledge of Regina Spektor songs.

Her songs reflect the best aspects of every time of music there is. She has absolutely no fear of trying new styles of music. In fact, she actually seems to have a rational fear of not trying new styles of music. She has music-ADHD.

I think Regina Spektor is a music machine. In her childhood, she was a prodigy, and to this day: she's one of those out-of-this-world, inhuman music goddesses. She's said on more than one occasion that she's constantly thinking up songs, and that she only writes the best ones down. She never even aspired to be a songwriter, her destiny just grabbed hold of her and made her its wife.

Her lyrics, best of all, are pure poetry. When you watch her interviews, (or in my case, gawk at them in a dark bedroom), she doesn't on first impression seem any more intelligent than a blond, Valley Girl who somehow figured out how to read and write music. But well into her interviews, she begin saying some really wise stuff. Furthermore, her songs are positively dripping with wisdom beyond her years.

Whenever I look at a picture of Regina Spektor, all of my problems go away. I want to sponsor a food drive for homeless people. I want to raise thousands of dollars for cancer research and hungry Africans in her name. I want to go into a confession and then hug all of the people I've ever insulted. Whenever I look at her pictures, I also want to make love to her. But I think that's a different sort of feeling.

Regina Spektor and The Beatles are fighting to the death for my favorite band, but she's winning. Because, dude, she's hot. Sometimes I feel the same way about John Lennon, but not to the same extent. Anyway, my fantasy is that this huge scandal is revealed and the media discovers that Paul McCartney is actually Regina Spektor's real father. Then, Regina Spektor and I get married. (I never figured how that would happen, but it doesn't really matter.) That way, I can have both of them in the same fantasy.

If you haven't already heard her songs, here are my first suggestions:

Another Town

Baby Jesus

That Blond Guy

Tuesday, November 2, 2010

Halloween (Past Tense)

How was everyone's Halloween? Strange that I'm asking you this, though, because I feel like I'm talking to myself. Then again, I asked the same question of my GI Joe action figures and cardboard cut-out of Chuck Norris November 1st as well.

Mine was fine, thanks. Strangely, I went paint-balling on Saturday. I went home with a load of testosterone-driven teenage guys on Friday. The older brother of our host really put a lot of effort into Halloween decorations. It was no less than stunning. Of course, the guys were cracking jokes about the decorations the whole time to mask their intense horror.

They (and I do mean "they" not "me") played this supposedly creepy video game called Dead Space until about 3 in the morning. Even among nerdy guys, who are often the most polite and friendly teenagers that exist, it's amazing how vulgar and foul-mouthed they can be when they're alone. ESPECIALLY when they're playing video games.

"%$%#! What the $%#@! Get that #$%&#@$ alien $%#@# outta there! Blast his %$#$@#@ %$#@#% to %$#@, %$#$@#!"

And that was just my friend's mother when she walked in on our game.

Saturday I had my second-ever paint-balling experience. It was pretty fun too. Seven or eight of the people at our party showed up in full costume. There was an Ironman and one kid in a gilly suit. I think one kid also went naked but I can't be sure--I was pretty tired from the night before.

Fortunately, Halloween Day I just got to relax. I went to Church in the morning and finished homework after that. Halloween Night, I just helped hand out candy in my Obama mask. I answered every door with a jolly outburst of "Ho ho ho! Take some candy! Happy Halloween! Help me--I don't feel mentally secure! Bye!" Unfortunately, we only got three groups of trick-or-treaters. Disappointing. Anyway, my brother and I were inside watching The Happening and stuffing our faces with half-decent candy from a last-minute run to Bed Bath and Beyond. (You heard right--you'd be surprised how much stuff they keep in the back. Way more than magic remotes and Christopher Walken.) The Happening isn't really a horror movie, but exceptionally eerie. You NEED to see it if you haven't.

Most importantly, I got a chance on Monday to write a love letter to Danielle. Here it is:

Dear Danielle,
I think ur pretty
also i think you have nice hair. and i like your backpack
do you want to be my girlfriend?
if you do, call my mom and she'll tell me. here is her number: 305-691-0338

Most sincerely,

Thursday, October 28, 2010

Trick or Treat Give Me Something Good to Eat or Just Leave the Bowl on the Front Porch with a Sign on the Front Door That Says "Quiet--Baby Sleeping"

For some impossibly juvenile and foolish reason, some people despise Halloween. I cannot even begin to imagine their reasoning for hating such a fun and unique holiday, but they do. Maybe you're diabetic. Maybe your parents were dentists. Maybe you're easily frightened because you lived an overprotective childhood. Maybe you're Dr. R. L. Hymers, Jr. and you're reading this post because of the maliciously-worded e-mail I sent you regarding your sermons in which I descirbed you as a "rabid, indoctrinating, blithering, Bible-thumping baboon."

Or maybe you somehow find it strange that on this holiday, originally the eve to a day honoring saints, citizens of First World countries across the world who call themselves civilized are dressing up in the middle of the night and banging on their neighbors' doors asking for candy.

But, to all of you Halloween grinches and Scrooges, I have only two words:


You heard me right. Fup you.

I absolutely love Halloween. First of all, I really like horror movies. Now, they have to be good horror movies: The Ring, The Shining, Psycho, Halloween, etc. I don't like gore either. I hate gore. Ruins a good horror movie. The best horror movies are the ones that creep under your skin--the ones that mess with your mind. Not the ones that make you feel squeamish and disgusted. Those horror movies are like rude cartoon strips compared to Renaissance masterpieces. I'm talking about psycological thrillers.

Another reason I love Halloween? I like the role-playing--I mean dressing up. Not role-playing. That'd just be weird...and gross...and kinky...and hot....

I love seeing when people get creative with their costume: juice boxes, Nazis, and dragon-hippo hybrids just to name a few of my favorites. I also loves babies in costume.

But most importantly: TEENAGE GIRLS IN COSTUME.

I don't care how corny. I don't care how cheap the costume is. To a certain point, I don't even care if you're good-looking or not. As long as you're scantily clad, shameless, and wearing cat ears. You tell me you want to be a sexy nurse pirate gypsy, I'll buy it--I swear. Just make sure you remember the stockings. Why would a sexy nurse pirate gypsy need stockings? you may ask playfully. Just wear them, b****, I would respond flirtatiously.

(The sexiest words in the English language are not, as our friend Foxworthy says, "Hey, y'all, I'm drunk!" Instead, it is often in response to the question what one is going to be for Halloween. It is "OMG I have the best slutty cheerleader costume in the neighborhood!"

So for reasons like these--role-playing teenage girls, adorable babies, horror movies, tons of packaged candy and the occasional roasted apple--Halloween is the best secular holiday there is. That is, of course, aside from Christmas.

You all remember the following: don't bully kids for their candy. Instead, trick-or-treat with them. When the police show up because one of the parents called them in, you just say "Hey, nice costumes, guys! I could almost buy it!" They'll feel so sorry for you, they'll leave you alone and go chase after some maniac running around in an Oompa-Loompa costume pelting small children with milk duds.

Happy Halloween and a Happy New Year! (slurred the drunken grandmother to the preteen trick-or-treaters before taking a swig of Vodka out of a skull-shaped children's mug from Party City.)

That Blond Guy

Tuesday, October 26, 2010

To Quote from...Jason Mulgrew

Excerpt from Jason Mulgrew's book Everything is Wrong with Me, after the author mentions that he hired a therapist and the therapist has been blaming all of his problems on his parents' divorce:

"Week Four:

Therapist: How are you?
Me: Okay, I guess. Oh, but last week, I tried to rip my penis off. I almost got it, too, but I gave up because I got tired.
Therapist: Hm...Why don't you tell me how you felt when you and your mom moved out of the house?

Week Seven:

Therapist: How are you?
Me: Not great. I learned recently that I get aroused when I watch shows like Cold Case Files and at funerals. I'm pretty weirded out about it, but part of me loves it.
Therapist: Do you think it might have something to do with your parents' relationship?

Week Eleven:

Therapist: How are you?
Me: I took a handful of pills on Sunday and beat up a traffic cop, two dogs, and a fence. To be fair, she was a really big and strong traffic cop and she started it. Although I did accidentally rob her house and her car. The dogs and fence were just innocent bystanders.
Therapist: What was your mom's biggest problem with your dad?

Week Sixteen:

Therapist: How are you?
Me: I burned down some churches and threw a hooker off a bridge. Then I got all coked up and ate most of a couch. Also, I'm not coming here anymore.
Therapist: Do you think your relationships with women have been affected by your parents' relationship troubles? And please keep coming. I'm putting a library in my house and I'm making a killing off you. It's cedar."

A Superb Trio of Totally Unrelated Phenomenon

1) 'Twas my birthday last Saturday. I'm severely disappointed in all of you for not wishing me a Happy Birthday, (shakes bony finger disappointedly with a mischevious twinkle in his eye). Still, it was an exceptional day. On Friday, I had seven or eight friends over for a few hours--then we went to see Red. Bruce Willis, Morgan Freeman, Hellen Mirren, and...(drumroll please)...LENNIE! Tell-me-about-the-rabbits Lennie! You know--Lennie? AKA John Malkovich? Nevermind--you guys aren't worth it.

But it was a great movie. After we left the theater it was pretty late and there were a bunch of shady people outside. We saw one woman digging through ash trays for cigarette butts, for example. Also, there was a long line of hip-looking people waiting to enter a really b******* nightclub with prostitutes and rap stars and five-year-old brothers and sisters. Yeah, about that last part, it turned out to be a steak house. (Sigh.) Scratch the part about prostitutes and rap stars.

For my birthday I got a slinky and my first cell phone. I'm mostly really excited about the slinky. The cell phone I've opened up once or twice since I got it on Saturday. The slinky I've been playing with five hours every day after I get home from school. The slinky is all I really need in life anymore. If I was Tom Hanks in Cast Away, the slinky would be my Wilson. If I was Danny Torrence in The Shining, the slinky would be my index finger. I love that thing.

I guess the phone is pretty cool too. I've named all of my contacts so far in French, which has been the most fun. Overall, it was a pretty awesome birthday.

2) I'm reading a book called Everything is Wrong With Me, based on the author's infamous blog, Everything is Wrong With Me: 30, Bipolar, and Hungry. I've fallen in love with the book. Literally--and that is a difficult thing to sort out legally. There's this one dialogue in the book that left me breadless with laughter. I won't post it TODAY, because the post is already too long, but I'll definitely include it in the next post.

3) Finally, I want you to check out this video by a two-person band called Matt and Kim. (Make sure you watch the whole thing.) It's utterly random, superbly arousing, and totally genius. The ending is the best part, in my professional opinion. Here it is.

I read in a book about computer software that can UN-DO censorship pixelization. That is what I want for my next birthday. Show us all or nothing, government morons. Preferably all. Yeah, definitely don't show us nothing. Kim's body is angelic despite her pixelated privates. And, um, Matt has nice legs.

Was the ending not an exceptional stroke of spontaneous brilliance?

That Blond Guy

Thursday, October 21, 2010

Issues: Keep Them to Yourself

I apologize in advance if this post sounds insensitive. If it does, that is only because I am a very insensitive person--one who never learned how to laugh as a child.

I think people are becoming too showy about all of the problems they have. Teenagers, mostly, are gradually getting to the point where we are proud of all of our problems. We show off our problems like a new blouse--a pretty, deep purple one that has frills at the cuffs.

What ever happened to the image of the misunderstood problem child with a horrible past who keeps all of his problems to himself until he learns to love and finally reveals his troubling history in a dramatic scene at the end of the movie set to a somehow tragic alternative-rock version of The Old Rugged Cross.

And I have to say this too, because it's entirely relevant. I love The Breakfast Club--I love ANYTHING John Hughes--but The Breakfast Club is one of my favorites. But still, did it strike anyone else as almost comical how obvious all of the characters were about their problems? Ally Sheedy even dumps the contents of her purse on a desk for everyone to see so that they all know about her problems. How many times does Judd Nelson complain about his daddy problems? They've only known each other for two hours, yet they're pouring their hearts out to each other about all of their problems. Then, of course, they take cocaine and dance wildly to Karla DeVito's We Are Not Alone.

Problems are the first things teenagers talk to each other about after meeting for the first time. Soon it gets to the point where it's like this:

"Hey, my name is McKenzie. My mother beats me and I cut myself."

"Hi, McKenzie, my name is Luke. My father sets impossible standards and I'm constantly questioning my sexual orientation!"

It's just absurd. Whatever happened to what we did in the 50's, when everyone wanted to pretend they were perfect and kept their problems to themselves because they were ashamed of them? Why aren't we more ashamed of our problems?

And that one I mentioned earlier is the one that really kills me. Cutting yourself. I'm not even going to joke anymore about that, because that just drives me senseless with sympathy and unfounded guilt. Anorexia and self-mutilation. Often found in a package. Anorexia is almost as frustrating to me, because they just get into this impossibly brainwashed mindset where they're never happy with themselves.

(I wouldn't mind anorexia so much if they knew when to stop. Maybe if they saw the supermodels on TV, became unhappy with their appearance, fasted and exercised until they were well-toned and sexy, and THEN stopped. I don't mind girls with injured self-esteems obsessed with being perfect as long as they have the right body shape, which doesn't include skeletal or unconscious. You can still deprive yourself of food, girls, just make sure you stop before your form disappears completely!)

But back to the thing about issues, why are we always so quick to offer up our secrets and problems like they're a big, juicy steak that the listener will feast on delightedly? What's the point? They're not going to help you deal with it. They're going to feel uncomfortable, maybe offer you some awkwardly-delivered words of comfort, and then avoid you until they think you have it dealt with.

The moral of the story? Keep things to yourself. Don't tell anyone about your aunts' psychological disorder or your friend's homophobic parents except your psychiatrist and your cat. Don't breathe a word to any of your peers about your dyslexia or your cousin's involvement in gangs. We don't want to hear it. Humans are self-absorbed and get bored with other people's problems. Let's not pretend otherwise.

That Blond Guy

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

Academic Team is Technically a Sport

Last Saturday was my very first Academic Team tournament! I was awoken at the crack of dawn to the sound of roosters calling and pegasi neighing, and I had to leave my house by 6 AM to make the bus. The bus ride to the tournament was about an hour long, but very entertaining, because one kid brought a lampshade that he insisted on wearing on his head the entire trip.

Nerds from all over Georgia were congregated at this one public school in a suburb of Atlanta. All types of nerds. There were inner city nerds with hoodies and sagging jeans. There were urban, private school nerds like us with their own Academic Team uniforms and naive expressions on their faces. Finally, there were rural nerds who looked like any other redneck teen from Georgia but somehow knew the dates of Revolutionary War battles and the authors of classic literature.

There was this one team in which every single member, (I still don't know if they were joking or not), showed up in suspenders, button-up shirts, and glasses. I walked up to one guy and said, "Keen suspenders." He nodded appreciatively like we both knew that those suspenders were the Cat's meow.

We did all right too. Our A Team almost made it to the Semifinalists. Our B Team did decently. Overall, it was just a really good experience. I loved the whole day.

Also found out on that day that Academic Team technically counts as a sport in terms of college credit and everything. Give me a break. (No, really. Give me a break. Maybe just like five minutes to wolf down a turkey sandwich and run to the bathroom. Thanks so much.)

Okay, if Academic Team is a sport, what's next? Debate? Chess? Cheerleading? Ultimate Frisbee? Girls' sports in general? Ha! Never!

Totally random side note! A kid walked into my Social Studies class today during his free period to say hello to my teacher, who basically told him to get out and go study. The kid, who was a little disgruntled, left the room and muttered, "I'm going to go pleasure myself in the bathroom."

The teacher was cool with it, though. This was the same Social Studies teacher who described Suleiman I's turban as "really b*******."


That Blond Guy

Friday, October 15, 2010

Buzz Cuts and a Totally Whacked-Out Music Video

I go to a private school, and we have hair codes. Just like--but not really like--in military school, whenever a guy's hair gets too long, the teacher will give him a deadline to cut it before he gets a detention. And you hear a lot of stories about guys who had to cut their hair at home in their bedroom with their younger sister's safety scissors because they couldn't make an appointment with the barber. They come to school with an extremely mutilated hair cut, everyone laughs and points at them, and the next day--they shave it all off out of embarrassment.

There aren't many things involving fashion or appearence that annoy me. I'm not like those girls in your Chemistry class who are always saying how much they hate this one girl in their homeroom because she never brushes her hair. But, for whatever bizarre reason, it annoys me when people get buzz cuts.

That sounds terrible in writing. It really does. But, having been raised in Georgia and Texas, I've grown accustomed to seeing them, and I've grown accustomed to discriminating against people who have buzz cuts.

I think it all started the first time I went to San Antonio with my grandfather to see the Alamo. I don't know why San Antonio is this way, but for whatever reason, there are a lot of kids with mohawks. I mean, when we went there, we saw entire families of mohawks. Little eight-year-old girls with mohawks, 300-pound daddies with mohawks, and sweet old grandmothers with mohawks. It was just insane. I guess it's like the effect of mixing city life and rural Texas. Buzz cuts and funky, urban hairstyles meet and shake hands. Then they marry, procreate, and have this bizarre baby.

Whenever I see buzz cuts, I think of the army, the Holocaust, and cancer. That's just my impression.

In conclusion, if YOU have a buzz cut, don't worry. I have nothing against you...except your haircut.

You've probably heard Muse's version of Feeling Good, right? That's all very well. It's a brilliant song, after all. But have you seen the video? If not, click on the link in the sentence before this conveniently colored purple for your sake. Anyway, don't ask me to explain the video to you. I think it's just as messed up as you do. The difference is, I love messed-up things. This video has been my #1 YouTube search in the past week aside from F*** You, by Lily Allen. (I've never been a fan of hip hop, but this all goes back to my England fetish. Something about British girls using the f-word makes me hot and nervous.)

Finally, I just want to clear something up.

A few posts ago, I got the following comment:

"Hon, honestly, I like your blog. You're a funny guy. But seriously, you can't always expect everyone to comment, because they don't always. And that's how blogging is."

Guys, what is this? An intervention? "Christopher, we love you. We really do. But this has got to stop." My favorite part is when I am described as "Hon."

I just wanted to clarify that when I whine and complain about how few comments I get--I'm making a joke. The self-pity and complaints are all part of the act, guys. I constantly have to remind people that I'm only joking. Never take me literally. Don't believe anything I say.

On that happy note, goodbye to you all.


That Blond Guy