Thursday, October 16, 2014

Requiem For a Pickle: The Very First Guest Post

Hi there. How are ya'? I know I said I'd have the new site up by now, and it technically is up, but there's nothing there. I underestimated how long it would take to write a eulogy for this blog (aka "auto-fillatio"). In the meantime, why not end this with something I've never done before: give up my precious word space to a guest post.

The pickling I did of Kianwi a while ago...in case you were
looking for a realistic rendering of her.
Kinley Dane, who many may remember as "Kianwi", is a person whom I followed for years who recognized a change was in order and made a move. Kinley (who I always want to add an "s" in there and call "Kinsley", I don't know why) is a great slash fiction writer extraordinaire--Okay, that's not true, but I really did love her dirty version of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (I don't think I need to tell you how Chocolate Factory is used as a metaphor)--Okay, that's not true either, she doesn't write slash fiction, just fiction, but I couldn't resist.  But Kinley is one of my inspirations to make the switch. She wrote a very touching eulogy song, a requiem if you will:

(Sung to the tune of the Brady Bunch theme)

Here's the story, of a lovely Pickle, 
who's been writing a very funny blog.  
Many postings on this site, were outrageous. 
Sometimes I was confused.
I picture Axl Rose singing this. Modern Axl Rose.

Here's the story, of an androgynous Pickle, 
who somehow had an antelope mixed in.
Boy or girl we didn't know, but no matter.
He/she still turned us on.

Till the one day when Pick said "sayonara
I'm starting over in a new magical land."
Well, wherever he/she goes, we will follow
Just like poo that got stuck on Pickleope's shoe.

On Pickleope's shoe. On Pickleope's shoe. We will follow just like poo on Pickleope's shoe! 
~Fin
Lyrics by Kinley/Kianwi 

It is oh-so appropriate for Kinley to write a parody song of The Brady Bunch considering, for a few weeks, I recapped Season 3 of The Brady Bunch for no discernible reason. Thank you for that requiem, Kinley.
This really doesn't have a place here, but I'm trying to reuse (recycle, it's green!) old images I enjoy.
In an effort to drag out the death of Pickleope interminably, I'll be accepting other eulogies if you care to submit them to pickleope@gmail.com. But again, as soon as I get the other site up and running (and yes, it is a Wordpress site), that's when I pull the plug on this little pal of mine...or rather let its carcass float in the pool of the internet until it completely dissolves or buzzards pick it clean...with one final eulogy, my own.

Wednesday, October 8, 2014

Let Detroit Die

For decades now, a preternatural amount of attention has been paid to the demise of Detroit, Michigan. Once a thriving metropolis and center of automobile production, it has since become as dilapidated as the internal organs of a current citizen of Detroit (they do lots of drugs, you need to in order to live in Detroit).

All car production has moved to nations with more lax child labor laws and no minimum wage while the only thing culturally relevant to have come out of Detroit in the past 30 years has been Kid Rock. Maybe that's it. Maybe Detroit's demise is karmic payback for the guy who wrote "Bawitdaba" and for Kiss and Ted Nugent. For those offenses alone we as a society should institute the death penalty, but as it stands, we can just stand by idly and watch that pit of despair die a slow and painful death. Urinating on Detroit's corpse might be a bit much despite how deserved it is for its hand in creating Jazz, but we also don't have to keep what is the municipal equivalent of a herpes-riddled prolapsed anus of a homeless mutt, on life support.
It has become a zombie blog.

Which is kind of how I feel about this blog. It was thriving at one point, but now there are a bunch of "followers" that are abandoned accounts and only a few bohemians who still come around. But it's really a ghost town here. Couple that with Google acting like municipal works trying to shut me down, and I am taking the hint.

For a while now this blog has stagnated. This was made clear to me when it came time to renew my domain name (that's right, I spent actual money on something as stupid as "pickleope.com," screw you, starving people) and I could not. My credit card expired this year and Google sent me multiple emails telling me to update the expiration date. It used to be I could do this through Blogger. However, not the case this year. Dear Lord Almighty Google has changed the way they do business. Supreme All Knowing Divine Google sent me a link where I was asked to login--despite already being logged in--then logged in, and it sent me back to a "choose your profile" page which then sent me back to a login page like an endless mobius loop.

Sweet Mother and Father of All Google seems hell bent on not allowing me to renew my domain name. I even called their help line to no avail. It caused me to freak out for a bit, then I realized, "oh, other great writers have moved their writing to other domains, I've grown to dislike my own confusing, silly name, so, to what am I clinging?"

"Pickleope, it's so avant-garde, it represents mash-up culture and absurdity" too bad no one understood that but me.
I have a bit of emotional history here, but I will not go back to being "pickleope.blogspot.com" because as embarrassed as I am to tell anyone my general domain name, adding that ".blogspot" part makes reciting the name dehumanizing. And like I said, "stagnation" is an issue. I've stagnated in my writing (though still brilliant, I haven't stretched in a while), stagnated in readers (though I love the handful of you who do read and even more those who comment...no, really, LOVE. I hope that doesn't make you uncomfortable that I LOVE you. Gimme hugs. Wait, where are you going!?!), and I have been as regular as clockwork with my posting schedule up until the last few months. I think that's a sign of stagnation. Like anyone dating Charlie Sheen, I recognize that there is no saving this relationship.

Yes, it makes me sad to lose Pickleope.com, but Pickleope will live on as my nom de plume. Your suggestions as to what you like and don't like are appreciated (I think that's called "constructive criticism"). Much like Detroit, let's allow Pickleope.com to die (not a dignified death, just a death, maybe a screaming death).

I'll be back with a direct to the new URL, hopefully one that's not nearly as silly and off-putting.

Thursday, October 2, 2014

True Signs of Aging

If there's one thing I despise, that would be a miracle because I despise a lot of things. Among them, people in their 20's and 30's lamenting about how "old" they are. What? This isn't the 1400's, life expectancy is above age 18 now. Our mortality worries center more on cancer and disease rather than Mongol hordes and eating a mushroom with your fingers crossed or "does that boar look angry?"


I get it. Once you're out of college, or see people younger than you playing professional sports, you're confused about suddenly having responsibilities and being forced to recognize that some technology you grew up with is unrecognizable to someone a decade your junior. But "old" is relative. We've all met "old" teenagers and "irresponsible jackasses" in their 40's who act like teenagers (not a compliment).

Just because some website, ravenous for page views, presents, "high school freshmen don't recognize this thing you're nostalgic for" doesn't mean you're old. So what if a young person is perplexed by a Nintendo? They also don't know how to drive or not eat their boogers in public. Not wanting to stay out until 4 AM at a club playing obnoxious music isn't an indicator of old, it's a sign of good taste, it means you did it and now you're smart enough to know how stupid that is. Losing your hair doesn't mean you're old. I've seen bald children...sure, they were going through chemo at the time, but still, bald as a salamander's butthole. 
Throwback drawing, back when I had a scanner and MSPaint 
"I remember when EDM was called Techno," is not a legitimate old person complaint. "When I was your age, I walked a mile uphill both ways to-and-from school every day," is an old person complaint because it's clearly a lie that means to aggrandize that generation. Truly old people, for some reason, need to make their generation seem strong or important, hence the lie of "the Greatest Generation" despite that generation being more hyper-racist than a stadium full of European soccer hooligans. "Back in my day, memory was stored on a floppy disc, not some invisible cloud," is just not going to make your generation seem like it endured anything.
Too bad he still doesn't know that he should either grow out the full beard or shave that stupid looking goatee. Goatees are like the overalls of facial hair, they've always looked silly but somehow they keep making a comeback. Image Credit.
Although, I think I hit an indicator, a true indicator that I am getting old. Other than my metabolism quitting like Roberto Duran after eight rounds with Sugar Ray Leonard (getting that joke may mean you're old), my memory suddenly decided to Kurt Cobain itself (if you can keep track of all of the dated references, let us know in the comments and you'll win a No Prize).

The man wrote an anthem of a generation. Oh god,
my generation sucks.
For the first time in a long time, someone asked me if I knew all of the lyrics to "Ice Ice Baby." Sadly, and shockingly, I was not able to. If you're in your 30's and don't know the lyrics to Vanilla Ice's seminal work, that's probably an indication of early-onset Alzheimer's. That and perpetually-floppy-dong/desert vagina (technical terms for limp dingy and corpse crotch), along with knowing how to play the card game bridge, are the only true indicators of aging. 

Monday, September 29, 2014

Million Dollar Idea: Embarrassing Purchase Proxy

Tired of the harsh judgement of the store clerk when you're buying the 32 pack of industrial strength three-ply toilet paper? Sick of buying the "magnum" size condoms because you're too embarrassed to buy the regular size so now you're stuck with this garbage bag hanging of your dangly bits during naked slappy time?
If these were carnival prizes, would anyone play the knock-the-bottles-over game?
Credit
 Maybe you're just not interested in the teenaged cashier swiping your hyper-absorbent maxi-tampon, picturing your monthly flow as so heavy that it would make Katrina look like a drought.

How can anyone hope to avoid such mundane human experiences? Hire B.E.T.T.E.R. where we help you Buy Embarrassing Things Through Electronics Regularly but without the shame.  At B.E.T.T.E.R., we empathize with the desire to never acknowledge any bodily functions yet still indulge in all of the products that make those bodily functions tolerable. 

All employees of B.E.T.T.E.R. go through a patented process of shame and judgement removal. Not to give away our secrets, but it involves spending a week with my mother. Sure, you could buy your herpes cream from Amazon, but think of all the judgmental hands it goes through: the payment processor, the warehouse worker, the person mailing it to you, it's a chain of shame. 

What's worse is that Amazon stores your purchase information. Say you buy one tube of Preparation H (it's for hemorrhoids, they're like poop blisters) now every time you go to Amazon, your "suggestions" page will be replete with anus creams. The "targeted advertisements" will involve anal care. Hope you don't let anyone else use your computer. Not with B.E.T.T.E.R., we don't store cookies or personal information. If you don't want us to even know your address, we'll meet you at night on a dark corner. We'll take instructions to leave the package on a park bench at noon wrapped in a newspaper if that's what you want.
Well, they're really not burying the lead, are they?
No job too big, no purchase too small. Are you an obese person embarrassed to buy another pair track suit, or want to try an at-home enema? A celebrity who needs a proxy to purchase a solid brick of cocaine...well, too bad, we don't do illegal purchases, but if your dietary restrictions insist you eat nothing but baby food, we can do that. We'll even buy McDonald's for you, pretend vegetarian who won't shut up about Whole Foods. Too craven to buy the DVD collection of the 12th season of Grey's Anatomy (seriously, how is that show still going)? We are--albeit begrudgingly--there for you. 

Every cashier everywhere is like a 50's judgmental, disapproving mother.
Credit
Don't try to trick the clerk into not noticing the diarrhea medicine buy hiding it amongst a slew of other purchases, let one of our B.E.T.T.E.R. Butlers proudly strut to the front of the line and make eye contact with the cynical, teenage (redundant) cashier to make that purchase for you. 

There you go, world, go ahead and make this a reality since I'm too lazy to be any sort of entrepreneur. 

Wednesday, September 24, 2014

HAPPY DAMMIT HAPPY

A conversation about happiness...

Nancy:
I'm so happy! Happy happy happy! It's glorious. Life is glorious. I'm so, so so happy. Everything is wonderful, I'm happy! Ha ha ha ha ha!

NOPE!
Me:
That's weird.

Nancy:
What, happiness? Of course YOU would think that. You're so cynical.


Me:
That's what delusional idealists call rational pragmatists. But yes, happiness. You think that happiness is a state-of-being?


Nancy:
Of course, that's what everybody aspires toward. If you don't aspire to be happy, than, what are you doing living?


Me:
Harboring realistic ambitions toward which I've stagnated due to a love of inertia. But the point is, sustained happiness is an impractical, nonsensical, quixotic goal.
NOPE!
Nancy:
To a misanthrope, maybe, but look at me, I'm super happy. 

Me:
Right now.


Nancy:
Happy. Happier than that Pharrell song, that's me.

Me:
Like that relentless sledgehammering of a simpleton's understanding of the complexity of human emotions, that song? It makes sense that someone who thinks she's in a perpetual state of happy would like that song. Even if you somehow believe that emotions are dictated by your heart or soul, that your brain and your thoughts will eventually poison your current, temporary mood? Haven't you changed moods swiftly and often enough to know that no emotional state is permanent, and thus, seeking a state of happiness is pointless?

N...Well, maybe but screw them for the image alone and make it a double
for the shmaltzy saying

Nancy:
But...but I'm happy. 

Me:
Great, but that's just for now. Something will happen that will make you temporarily not happy. Emotions are often randomized, but all emotional states are temporary, particularly the extreme emotions, like happiness. 


Nancy:
So I should just burn all of my motivational posters? Aspire to be just not sad?


Me:
Maybe strive for contentment. Pockets of happiness will come and go, but contentment means you've achieved something. You got right above "not sad" which is really pretty great if you look at the depression numbers.
YUP!

Nancy:
I think I need a drink.


Me:
Well, I feel happy. Have you ever met someone who claims to be happy all the time? They're insane and annoying.

Nancy:
Why are we even Facebook friends? I haven't worked with you in over a decade?


Me:
Enlightenment? Cute kitty pics? To find out what character I am in an endless series of Buzzfeed quizzes? The act of defriending someone is so emotionally taxing that it's like I'm somehow holding you hostage just by existing? I get that. 

~Fin~

Post Script: This is why there's no Pickleope interactive Facebook page.

Monday, September 22, 2014

If Life Was a Car

If life was a car, I'd trade mine in. Maybe get an upgrade. I can't exactly afford another one, but I'd get a loan. What? My loan request was denied? Well, what if I leased a new life? DENIED!?! That can't be. Let me see that credit report. 
It's pretty depressing that this is probably the best representation of the
thing that will be towing my boring life away at the end. Credit

But that K-Mart never sent me a bill, that delinquency is a lie, I returned those 20 pool noodles, they never kept the shape of my sandals or felt like hugging Marlon Brando when taped together. And look, look right there, default on my Blockbuster account? How can I default on an account to a place that doesn't exist anymore? You want to check on my Woolworth's account next? 

Okay, okay, forget trade-in value? How about this, how much will you offer me for my current life? Go ahead, pull the LifeFax on it. This life has great mileage, only took it out every-other-weekend and...Whoa, what do you mean there's damage from persistent submersion? What does that even mean, my life has never been caught in a flood? 

OOoooOOoooh. I didn't realize that using too much fuel could negatively affect the inner-workings of my life. I mean, it is what powers my life, so how was I to know that using too much of it would cause the converter to short out? What if I got a new converter from a junk-yard? There's a waiting period for those? I can probably get to the top of the list, after all, I'm the proprietor of a mildly unpopular blog.
Because Lightening McQueen is NOT on drugs, that's why he has that grin. Sure thing. Credit
Of course there are rust spots, it's not like I've ever cleaned this life. Don't look in the trunk, that's super...Sorry, I was trying to tell you how gross it is in there. The glove compartment is pretty clean, nothing has been in there...Except, I forgot I left a rancid bologna sandwich in there. That part of my life probably smells something awful.

Credit..and holy crap, get your poo together, man.
Yes, I do know that my particular model does not have the best resale value, that people are giving it away for pennies on the dollar, but I've made some modifications. Look here, my life has brand new rims and some dice hanging from the mirror which I will throw in at no cost because I sewed them to the roof lining. 

Aww crap, those modifications reduce the value? Is this one of those old GI Joe toy situations where if I kept my life in its original packaging that it would be worth more? Damn.

Okay, fine, for my life I will accept a rusty Slinky and a cassette tape of your middle-aged brother's jazz-fusion band. Fine, shake on it.

Ha ha, sucker, I win! 

Friday, September 19, 2014

For Grandma Max

Rest in Peace Grandma Max.
Grandma Max, my last grandmother, died this week. Please do not say any variation of "sorry for your loss." Grandma Max(ine) was not into anything cliche like that. 
Not Grandma Max, but damn close. I think this granny clit-slapped Rick Ross, and regardless of whether that is true or not, she deserves at least a gobbler tickle. Credit
Maxine was an amazing woman. The fact that she and her late husband Burt managed to never make me feel like an outsider to the family despite being a step-child, a new edition as part of a third marriage, is a staggering feat worthy of praise at minimum on par with the praise heaped on children who win spelling bees. That sounds like an insult, but think about how much adults faun over spelling bee winners, or even how much praise is fire-hosed upon kids who lose in the third round, then triple that, that's the praise Maxine deserves. 

Max was able to be a badass without having to be overt. She just was. This lady
would have been embarrassed by being in the presence of Max. Credit
She was warm and welcoming to me and my spouse right from the outset. Every time we saw her, which was usually Christmas, she was legitimately interested in my life, or at the very least, made me feel like that. That is a rare quality in a person. Hopefully I can live up to that example.

At the very least, she gave birth to and raised the one person clever and caring and special enough to be a legitimate father figure and brilliant enough to raise me. I would call him "Dad" but the one time I did, he said, "Don't ever call me that." (It was because I was being a little jerk, trying to get money out of him.)

I'll miss you, Grandma Max. You were one-of-a-kind, hilarious (whether intentional or not), loving, and blunt in a way that could be mistaken for gruff.

Credit
She was exceptional and deserves better than cliched notions of faux-sympathy. Instead of "sorry for your blah blah blah", if you are inclined to comment, please give Maxine some sort of unique send off, even and especially if it would confound her. She was great at chalking things up to "well, that generation." So let's try something different like, "a thousand grumpy cats for Max" or some sort of photoshopped nonsense or Ryan Gosling shirtless, I think she'd like that, or some strange non sequitur that she'd be absolutely bewildered by but dismiss in the most polite-yet-condescending way imaginable. 

I'll miss you Maxine. And the biggest of hugs to those she left behind. 

ShareThis