For example, I could become a master of comedy:

The Power of Beard: apparently a boon in natural selection. Which one of these men is still alive?

A pioneer in electromagnetism:

Electrodynamic Style.

Or even a Hero of Truthiness:

The Colbeard. (And yes, a remarkable resemblance to Iron Man. Coincidence? I think not.)

There are numerous other examples, but I think you get the point.

So disregard any negative hearsay, folks. The moral of the story is, grow some facial hair. (And don’t worry, ladies — you don’t have to be left out of the path to glory.)

Thanksgiving 2010: Nothing too fancy, just dinner with my dad’s side of the family. The most eventful part, however, was how I got to and from that dinner: a bus to campus, a bus from campus to the greyhound station, a bus from Syracuse to Port Authority, a late-night walk to Penn Station, and a commuter train (unfortunately on which the toilet was broken and overflowing — Springsteen never sang about that shit)  into New Jersey. Then the dinner — delicious! And then repeat the travel process in reverse.

I could put up with the late hours and the long travel times pretty well, but what drained the remainder of my soul was waiting in line for my bus at Penn Station. I witnessed a woman stuffing her suitcase full of wigs, a pigeon riding the escalator, a man carrying a full box of pizza in and out of the bathroom, and a heated argument in French (where I was caught in between the two arguing parties) about cutting in line. Humanity: you’re doing it wrong.

Facepalm is Futile.

- – -

And now I am back frantically typing to meet the deadline for an article review (a very intriguing look at how Victorian developments in thermodynamics influenced the man / monster transformation in Robert Louis Stevenson’s The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde) which means only one thing: I’m procrastinating like no man’s business. Here are the latest gems:

– True American Dog: Ok, so I never said everything here was of the highest caliber.

– Scenes From a Multiverse: Snapshots of our galaxy. Almost as random as Penn Station at 12am on a Friday.

– GunBlood, a Western-style duel game. Gory, fast-paced, and addicting as hell.

– Journey Quest: If you like Dungeons & Dragons and comedy (let’s be honest, who doesn’t?), you’ll love this. The first episode alone is better than all of the first D&D movie. (Why is Marlon Wayans in an RPG fantasy film? *commercialization shudder*) Also, it’s Creative Commons licensed, so be sure to spread the nerdy humor to all who’d appreciate it (in other words, everyone).

Ah, procrastination, the politically correct cousin of masturbation. Feels good while you’re doing it, but in the end you’re just screwing yourself. So now I must get back to work.

But before I go, rest in peace Leslie Nielsen. Surely you’ll be looking down on all of us and laughing.

1) The Multi-Annual Mark-Makes-Another-Blog-Post Time

AND

2) The Inevitable Post-Halloween, Pre-Christmas Fervor / Onslaught / Hullabaloo

Father Christmas Ain't Nothin' to Fuck With

Sweet jesus, people — are we really this impatient? Why does Thanksgiving always get skipped as we rush headlong into the clusterfuck of the yuletide season? By all means, Americans should take the time to stop and celebrate Thanksgiving, lest we forget our heritage. (Of overeating, that is.)

I certainly won’t claim I abstain from any winter holiday celebrations — I’m a sucker for those classic Christmas movies (well, at least the ones I consider classic) — but I  think it’s important we realize the ridiculousness of the whole business. Christmas certainly has a magic to it, but (and here comes the cliché!) that magic shouldn’t come from a store. Corny, I know, but just think about it.

Personally, nothing could ever replace my father cursing like a 1920‘s sailor as he attempts to get that “goddamn, pain-in-the-ass” tree straight for the “millionth damn time” even though I’m trying my hardest to help and doing everything he says but I’m pretty sure he cut the “worthless, motherfuckin trunk” crookedly so it’s going to rest crookedly in the “piece-of-shit” stand no matter what I do. On the sidelines are my mother and sister: the former watches silently, washing her hands of the entire matter. The latter, in a fit of laughter, assumes this verbal debauchery is all my fault. Ah, decking the halls with profanity — such a lovely family experience. Yet I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

But I digress. Dear readers, find your own way to celebrate the holidays (yes, holidays — don’t forget there’s more than just Christmas) — even if it is just finding the “fun” in “dysfunctional.” (Or, more colorfully, that “malfunctioning, defunct, infundibular bitch of a tree.”) (No, my father did not actually use any of those words., but they were too good to pass up.)

Finally, allow me to acknowledge my own hypocrisy in posting a “don’t get so jazzed about Christmas!” post when it’s not even December yet. Consign me to the Naughty list.

- – -

Speaking, however, of posts, I apologize, dear Internet, for my absence. Allow me to make it up to you — as always — with wonderfully weird miscellany:

- Here there be monsters: the Carta Marina, a 16th-century map of the world.

- Finally, my desire to stake a hipster is justified.

- Getting into academia is apparently trickier than I first assumed.

- Speaking of English: Oxford’s additions to their 2010 Dictionary, AND 50 Cent’s tweets, translated into the Queen’s English.

-  The new Girl Talk album. The mixing is great, but the novelty wears off pretty quickly for me. Also, this album pretty much explains why Americans have Attention Deficit Diso– ooh, look!

- Better Book Titles – surpassing SparkNotes both in accuracy and hilarity.

- A graphic breakdown of Harry Chapin’s “Cat’s in the Cradle.”

- SnuggieSutra. No, that is not a typo. You now know what to get me for Christmas.

- And, last, but certainly not least: DEFENESTRATION THE MOVIE

- – -

Well, that’s about all for now, dear readers. Look back soon for another edition of Ridiculous Gifts. (Suggestions are welcome. As are donations, morally loose women, eight balls of coke, and bulk packages of peanut M&Ms. )

Well friends, it’s time to say goodbye to the temp jobs, awkward tan-lines, and shameful hookups with that one girl from high school who you kind of liked at one point but now have to explain that it was just more of a fling, for academia is once again upon us!  Here’s to another year of internships, awkward hangovers, and shameful hookups with that one girl from your freshman dorm who you kind of liked at one point but now have to explain that it was just more of a fling.  Ah, the wonders of education and maturity.

This semester I begin work as a grad student, which includes teaching a section of freshman comp.  I’m admittedly nervous, but also excited to bring to the classroom all of the do’s and don’t's I’ve accumulated from my years as an undergrad.  But knowing me, I’ll say something awkward on the first day and lose all agency immediately.  Then again, if Lennon could derp out and still go on to be more popular than Jesus, perhaps I’ve got a chance with those freshmen afterall…

Anywho, so far I’m quite enjoying my move to Syracuse (which apparently is nicknamed the “Salt City“).  The university’s campus is quite beautiful (the English dept. offices are in a wonderfully gothic building epically (and righteously) dubbed the “Hall of Languages“), my apartment is literally brand-new, and whenever I need a good laugh I can check out the football team.  (In an ironic twist of fate, however, one of my roommates was a former player — he had NFL prospects, but had to permanently retire when he tore his ACL, PCL, & LCL in a single play his 2nd season.  Doctors said he’d never be able to walk again.  The good news is that he walks just fine now.  The bad news is that he wants to take me to the gym.  AlexJonesPlan, don’t fail me now!)

The only thing I don’t like so far is the commute.  I live on the south fringe of Syracuse, meaning that I’ve got a good 30-min walk to campus.  Yes, I still am a bum and refuse to buy a car.  I did, however, buy a bike.  But I’ll be damned (see link:  ironic title much?) if anyone wants to give me room on the road to actually ride it.  (Dan, I’m looking at you for cycling tips.)

mind the gap

And call me vain, but I’ve currently forgone a helmet for the sake of the faux-hawk.  But fashion will certainly protect my head from any blunt trauma, right?

Well, at least it’ll be entertaining when it happens.

And, before I go, here’s some of that weird & wonderful Internet miscellany you all crave:

- Christopher & Calvin at recess.

- Silent and delicious:  ninja cookies.

- Who out there likes to write fiction?  The time draws nigh.

- The worst (and simultaneously the best) of YouTube.

- Look at this fucking hipster dinosaur.

- And either a very useful tool or the best prank ever:  schedule a cell phone call.

BACK TO SCHOOL BONUS:

- Free books?  I like anything free, and I like books.  This could be the start of something wonderful.

I:  COLD WAR HEATS UP

For those living under a rock (or, more appropriately, in a fallout shelter), the U.S. recently arrested 11 individuals across New York, Virginia, New Jersey, Massachusetts, and Cyprus on the suspicion of being Russian spies.

a simpler time when americans were americans, commies were commies, and unicorns were unicorns

How awesome is that?!  It’s like we’re living in a James Bond novel.  (Except, of course, for the fact that 007 was British.)  Regardless,  I finally feel justified for buying that emergency personal hovercraft.  I must admit, however, that I would make a horrible spy; I’m hardly suave, I tend towards pacifism, and I have no knowledge whatsoever of fine wines.

But I take comfort in the fact that these Russians weren’t the best spies either; one apparently bought an international calling card using the address “99 Fake Street.”  Not exactly the level of subtlety I’d expect from the Reds, but hey, I’ll take all the real-life espionage intrigue I can get.

II:  RED, WHITE, BLACK, & BLUE

Oh America.  Always so eager to celebrate yourself.

Now don’t get me wrong, dear reader–I’m by no means an anarchist.  I just wouldn’t count myself among the ranks of the fervent flag fanatics.  I like America, but don’t confuse that partiality with adoration; I just like to sit back, watch our star-spangled antics, and think, “Oh America, you so crazy!”

For the most part, I’m glad to be an American.  Not for any political, economical, or historical reasons, mind you.  Simply because living in the good ‘ol U-S-of-A has given me the opportunity to see some of the weirdest shit of which this country is capable.  (Not to say that other countries aren’t giving us a run for our money.  (Though admittedly our money isn’t worth much anymore.))

But hey, it’s your birthday, America.  So who am I to judge?  Happy 234th.

III:  IT CAME FROM THE INTERNET

And for our finale, what would a Between the Sideburns© post be without some random (mis)information superhighway miscellany?  Enjoy the following collection of rapid-fire “wtf.”

- CEO of a foreign / third-world company?  Hosting a big press conference?  Need to conform to white, mainstream business appearances?  No problem–rent a white guy.

- TV Hat.  Because god forbid we leave the cold, electric glow of our tvs for more than 5 minutes at a time.

- The demands of a wild and crazy guy:  Steve Martin’s tour rider.

- Going to prom with the undead?  Might I recommend a corsage.

- And lastly, though this didn’t technically come from the internet (thank you, PSU foreign language department), I couldn’t resist posting it.  But don’t get your hopes up, gentlemen–this magazine was hardly what I’d hoped it’d be:

false advertising

ENCORE!

What’s that, internet?  You’d like more?  Alrighty, I’m eager to please.

I have saved the best for last.  May I present Lobster Dogs.  (Don’t ask, just “awww!”)

Woof.

Anywho, I will admit that I’ve been rather lax with posts.  Miss me?  Most likely you didn’t even know I was gone, or (far more likely) wasn’t even aware that I was here in the first place.  Regardless, let the debauchery re-commence.

As the festival of perspiration you masochists gleefully call ‘summer’ roars into full swing, it brings with it the month of June, which (to me) is remarkable for several reasons:

1) The World Cup 2010.  Sport fanaticism (and for that matter, sports in general) has always eluded me.  At football games, I usually judge how well our team is doing based upon not the actions actual team but the reactions of the other people around me.  (And what civilized folk they are.)

However, I can’t help but admire the World Cup; it’s like a giant, noisy, recess field — a whole little world onto itself.  You have the jocks, the nerds, the cute girls, the not-so-cute girls, and the weird guy who only wants to play by himself.  It’s quite the microcosm, no?  If only we could solve our real-world problems by running around and kicking balls.  Alas.

One thing’s for sure though — it is motherfucking noisy.  (Feel left out?  Don’t worry, there’s an app for that.)

2) Birthdays.  A large number of my friends have birthdays in June.  It makes you wonder what all of our parents were doing back in September.  [Insert disgusting mental image here.]  Sorry about that.  But I feel your pain — apparently there’s a chance I was conceived to “La Bamba.”]

Anywho, I’m included in that cluster of birthday guys and gals.  After 22 years, I can only stand back and marvel at the miracle of life.  And by that I don’t mean conception, I mean the simple fact that I’ve somehow managed to survive over two decades without grievously injuring myself.  Well, fatally injuring myself.  There was that one time I ran into a wall when I was 4.

Regardless, you must admit that the little details write history.  As aforementioned, sports aren’t my cup of tea, but by some luck / fluke / divine miracle / cruel karmic payback to my parents, I won the sprint to the egg.  Just think how differently things could have been if just a single detail changed!  (But don’t look hopeful, you’re stuck with me.)

3) Father’s Day.  Speaking of insemination, that annual celebration of testosterone is about to roll around once more.  No, no, not the Redneck Olympics.  Father’s Day — the one day of the year when the rest of the family is obligated to play along with their patriarch’s delusions of grandeur.  So hang out with your dad!  Go fishing, kill a bear with your bare hands, and try to overcome that crippling guilt he smothers upon you every time he brings up the fact you play pretend (i.e. theatre) rather than football.

Regardless, still wondering what to get good ‘ol Dad on June 20th?  Never worry, my friends — once again Mark is here with a handy guide to ease your Father’s Day shopping woes.

because a regular keyboard is just so darn inconvenient

• A USB typewriter.  Provided your dad is tech-savvy, nothing says ‘nostalgia’ like a product that regresses his keyboard skills to his days of temp-work back in the 1920′s.  A must for every modern household.

you've got wail

• An email from the grave.  Fallen out of touch with Pops recently?  Then give him the warm assurance that he’ll be able to forward you those shitty chain emails long after you’ve pried any inheritance out of his manly, cold, theatre-disapproving hands.
  

  simultaneously hiding and creating a hangover

• A camouflage six-pack beer holster belt.  Because you want something for dad that says “I like to drink on the go, but I don’t want to stand out too much.”

a gift from those who truly care, for those who truly have no shame

• Bacon candy.  A two-for-one punch that’ll fill up dad’s heart with joy (and his arteries with death).  (And yes, this does come from a blog called ‘Bacon Today.’  Just when you thought things on the internet couldn’t get weirder…) (As a bonus: Bacon Soap.)

Well, that’s all for now kids.  Let me know what sort of gift ideas you have for your own dad!  I’m sure he’ll love and respect whatever you give him, just like he loves and respects the personal choices you’ve made in life.

PRACTICALLY ANYTHING. A true St. Paddy’s day post would be on par with a sermon; most people fail to realize that the Irish spend this “holiday” praying in church, not drunk off their asses in a bar. But, in the true American spirit, we’ve taken something holy, bastardized it, and concocted yet another excuse for heavy drinking. Because what better way to honor generations of toiling immigrants than blacking out by 7:00pm and waking up hungover on a stranger’s couch with a new tattoo.

But as I find myself among the ranks of the American dreamers (i.e., idiots), I’ll appease your need for drunken debauchery: this post reeks with anger, broken dreams, and an over-acute sense of righteousness – all the hallmarks of the American St. Paddy’s day reveler.

Two weeks ago I was lucky enough to catch Flogging Molly’s show at Penn State. It was a great concert (with a kickass opening act), and went off without a hitch. (And kudos to the poor man who had to mix acoustic guitar, electric guitar, mandolin, banjo, violin, bass, accordion, penny whistle, drums, and vocals simultaneously.) Admittedly, I was worried, as the show was in one of the nicest rooms in the HUB – the same one destroyed by a previous Girl Talk concert. But the fates smiled down upon the wannabe Irish punk fans of central PA, and we avoided disaster. Or at least so I thought.

The next day a review of the concert came out in The Daily Collegian, the school paper. In the past I’ve grimaced but tolerated the “writing” in Collegian, but this time I am spurred – nay, required as a defender of the English language – to raise my voice in good, old-fashioned Irish protest. (For the record, the only thing Irish in me is the Killian’s I had with dinner.) Regardless, it was time to go a-flogging.

Where to begin with this journalistic masterpiece? The title is straightforward enough: Flogging Molly invades HUB. Short. Almost elegant in its brevity. But then the tagline rears its ugly head: The band attracted an audience wearing green attire and even kilts. Ah, the first of many instances of excess: if one does anything else with “attire” besides wear it, I’m not sure I’d like to know. Also, shouldn’t this article focus on the band? I wouldn’t be surprised to check the Collegian archives and find other gems by this reporter, perhaps a January 2009 tagline reading: Mrs. Smith wore gloves, a hat, and a coat to a recent inauguration.

This, however, I can forgive. Don’t judge a book by it’s cover, right? Unfortunately, I should have obeyed the warning signs: things only go downhill from here.

Most (good) articles follow what’s referred to as an “inverted pyramid” structure: a general overview at the beginning that narrows to the specific. This article, however, chooses to bombard the reader with details – an unorganized shit-storm of tangent after tangent. No real point is made throughout the entire piece – it’s like a child with ADHD trying to describe a rave. Before any mention of the band, we have a thrilling description of the line. Really? The line. People standing. Doing nothing. This riveting snapshot takes up the entire second paragraph.

When we finally do stumble across words related to Flogging Molly’s actual set, the focus once again reverts to the audience: shoes and hats became airborne…[in] multiple mosh pits. Apparently I’ve been moshing incorrectly all of these years – I mistakenly believed moshing involved some sort of violent, semi-homoerotic grind-dancing, not a group of people throwing clothing. (But perhaps this is the alternate use of “attire” to which our Shakespeare has alluded.)

And, in true American St. Patrick’s spirit, there was no short of ignorance / thinly veiled racism in the article: Flogging Molly’s vocalist reportedly sings in “an Irish accent as thick as a leprechaun’s beard” and a sporran is eloquently referred to as “a sort-of traditional Scottish version of a fanny pack.” Undoubtedly the classiest, most politically-correct diction this side of Ann Coulter.

Fact-checking is also apparently like, so outdated. Almost as outdated as the article’s reference to a song from Flogging Molly’s “new” album, which came out IN THE YEAR 2000. (This “new” album not only was the band’s first album, but it has been followed by 6 albums since.) For the love of God, man, this isn’t that difficult. But clearly our author couldn’t waste the 0.22 seconds it takes to make a Google search; he must have been celebrating the genius of his tagline.

And though I do enjoy raining fiery retribution upon the author and his article, I unfortunately can’t read the entire thing without pausing to gag. I abandoned all hope when our ace reporter described the opening act (chronologically lost in the middle of the article) as taking “full-advantage of their traditional instruments.” Please. The only thing that’s being taken advantage of here is the English language. More specifically, IT IS BEING RAPED. Perhaps the band could have demonstrated their talent. Or displayed professional skill. Or even, more vernacular-ly, rocked the house. But no, an out-of-place, awkwardly sexual metaphor was clearly the best choice. Also, since when is “full” and “advantage” hyphenated? I must-have-missed the memo.

Now I’m not claiming that I could write a better article. (But I’m not not claiming a retarded penguin could.) I have no training in journalism. (Nor apparently does this reporter.) I would, however, have chosen better quotes with which to end the piece. This reporter must have actively sought out the stupidest man in the audience for an interview: It’s like nirvana,” Troester said. “The religious principle, not the band. Thanks for clearing up any doubt there, chief. Please don’t slander me by implying I enjoy the same kind of music as ‘ol lukewarm IQ over there.

Well, that’s all I’ve got folks. If you’ve made it this far you’re either extremely bored, or you have a strange fetish for schadenfreude. If there’s one thing we’ve learned from this, it’s never drink and describe. So when you’re out getting rugburn on your forehead this Wednesday night, please – I beg of you – think before you speak (or write). Because one day some idiot with sideburns and a load of pent-up anger may open a blogged can of literary whoop-ass upon your poor soul. (Note the correct use of a hyphen.)

‘Til Death (or Blue Light Special) Do Us Part

It's not you, it's m.....ok, it's you.

Debenhams, a UK department store chain with 150+ outlets, has recently begun a divorce registry program. Yes, this is exactly what it sounds like: as a recent divorcee often finds themselves lacking in certain household items (or, if you were the husband, the house itself), they can create purchase wish lists to send to family and friends – a hilarious bastardization of wedding registry. One more reason why one day I’ll be living in England.

You Shouldn’t Have! No, Seriously.

Looking for a last-minute gift for that special someone? Need a present that’ll really reach out and grab them like never before? Well then do I have a site for you.

yes.

SWEET GOD NO!

There’s something fundamentally wrong when I can buy a “full tiger pack” online. I’m not a vegetarian, vegan, or animal rights activist, but this is just plain wrong. Though I may have put down Darwin’s Theory of Natural Selection in previous posts, I can only hope that someone stupid / senseless enough to buy a tiger will have a good mauling in their future.

So I’m firmly siding with pro-animal rights groups and PETA on this one. Heck, they make a rather convincing argument (and provide me yet another reason to move to England).

Honestly, who can argue with softcore porn with a moral? It’s a genius way to kill two birds (and potential children) with one stone. The last time I came across such multitasking was the thinly veiled eroticism in the American King James’ Song of Solomon 1:13 – “ A bundle of myrrh is my well-beloved to me; he shall lie all night between my breasts.” And lo, it was good. (And in case your wondering, finding this quote involved some heaving Google-ing. You’d be amazed what comes up when both “Bible” and “porn” are in your search terms.)

Regardless, this gritty, down-to-earth verse is the kind of stuff that churches need to advertise to bring in all the parishioners. Bring faith down to a level that an immature idiot can enjoy. Think of the crossover market potential!

But I’m rambling. Tangents aside, I hope we all acknowledge and look down upon the absurdity of a promotion to BUY A FUCKING TIGER ON THE INTERNET.

A Pearl of Wisdom from the FDA

On February 18th, the FDA issued a statement warning the public to stay away from ear candles. NO FUCKING SHIT, FDA. I’m glad that there’s a whole government agency employing billions of taxpayer dollars to crank out such earth-shattering revelations as the lightly paraphrased “Sticking something on fire in your ear is probably at bad idea. At the very least, don’t let kids do it.”

Worse yet, some ear candle manufacturers tout their product as a miracle cure that will “purify the blood, strengthen the brain, or even cure cancer.” Silly us. We’ve been fighting a cutthroat battle against cancer for decades, desperately looking for a cure when what we should have done is roll up some paper, insert it into one of the most sensitive areas of our body, and ignite it. This is like solving world hunger with a good pep-talk.

Much like those tiger-buyers, any ear candle user would only be doing the future gene pool a favor by going full-out Johnny Storm. But only provided they become a pile of ash, not a superhero.

- – -

Well, that’s all I’ve got for now, loyal readers. Unless, of course, you’d be interested in seeing a music video by James Cameron. Yes, the Avatar Cameron. In 1988 Bill Paxton (yes, the Paxton of Apollo 13, Aliens, and Titanic) made a fantastically horrible guitar duo with some other guy. They made a song called “Martini Ranch.” The product was this horrible music video (more power to you if you can get through the whole thing in a single sitting):

Why a steroid-pumped female blacksmith? Why a mariachi band with a keytar? Why a post-apocalyptic wild west bordello? I don’t have these answers, loyal readers. But hopefully the director, the man who’s most recent work is nominated for the Oscar for Best Picture, does. We’ve come a long way from the ’80′s.

WE CAN'T REPEL DEMOCRACY OF THAT MAGNITUDE

Students at the University of Mississippi (Ole Miss) are looking for a new mascot to replace their vaguely racist former figurehead, Colonel Reb. This is good news, certainly a step forward.

But the even better news is that one of the candidates is none other than the highly-esteemed ADMIRAL ACKBAR of Star Wars fame. Although the Ole Miss student body president has dismissed it as “comic relief,” the campaign for the Mon Calamari general grows stronger every day. As the campaign slogan reads, “Who wants a Colonel when you could have an Admiral?” Finally, something that combines my love for Star Wars and my disdain for politics.

Now while I normally disagree with celebrities seeking public office, I think this is genius. It reminds us that democracy and representation is a great gift of freedom, and it shouldn’t be reduced to a process of picking the lesser of two evils in a suit. Ackbar’s candidacy (in the same vein as the Inanimate Objects Party at good ‘ol RPI, who each year attempt to elect Arthur Galpin – an inflatable whale pool toy – as Grand Marshall) shakes up the status quo and injects some much-needed life into the world of politics.

Perhaps my favorite example: (pt. 1 of 3)

And speaking of shaking up “normalcy:”

- Former VP Dick Cheney apparently had a mild heart attack. I find this news extremely upsetting, as it implies the man has a heart.

- GM will end the sale of Hummers. WTF. I guess now when I want to do something for the environment, I’ll just have to go clubbing.

- Bishop Margot Kaessmann, the head of Germany’s Protestant church has resigned after being charged with drunk driving, having ran a red light while three times over the legal limit. Perhaps someone had a bit too much of that sacramental wine.

I apologize that this post may not be as much of a knee-slapper as others, but I’m not simply a bear trained to play ice hockey by a Russian circus for your mere amusement. Sometimes I have a deeper message. But just sometimes.

So keep on fighting the man, loyal readers. But just remember to check first if that battlestation is operational.

As always, February brings with it cold weather, Valentine’s Day, and an overwhelming sense of guilt as I fail in almost all of my New Year’s resolutions. Break it down now:

- cold weather: Having recently moved into a new apartment (“Bag End,” “Fortress of Solitude,” “Man Cave,” (insert nerdy, ‘not-surprised you’re single’ nickname here), etc.), I hadn’t actually purchased internet service, so I shadily siphoned some off of an unwitting neighbor:

I DRINK YOUR BANDWIDTH.

But last week I caved. Not only did I somehow manage to decipher Comcast customer service, but I bought a subscription to internet and cable. Yes, that’s right, kids. After almost 8 years of fighting the man, I once again find myself a spectator to 21st century culture and entertainment. Forgive me as I repress a shudder. But I digress. When we suffered the ‘snowpocalypse’ (Is that the best nickname job you can do, mainstream news? Allow me to assist.) it became harder to “aggressively borrow” internet, so I decided to bite the bullet and just subscribe. (And if you’re wondering, it was cheaper to do the internet and cable bundle. More on the wonders of cable in a later post.)

- Valentine’s Day: Surprisingly, I actually enjoyed Valentine’s Day this year.  Perhaps because White Castle offered candlelight dining service. I think it’s love.

- New Year’s resolution fail: Really folks, if you haven’t lowered your expectations of me by now, I’m amazed you still have a handle on the complicated procedure of inhaling and exhaling.

Coincidentally, I got you a gift.

Not that I don’t appreciate good, old-fashioned optimism, but seriously, blind faith in me would leave Charles Darwin rolling in his grave. (For that matter, he should already be rolling: 50,000 sperm and I was the quickest? Natural selection, my ass.) If you still have hope in me, then I must admit your future looks grim.

However, in true Mark fashion, this apology also includes some blame-shifting, as my computer did die for two weeks at the beginning of February. But now that all is restored and I am settled in, I hope to make up for time lost and record some masterpieces. In the meanwhile, check out this song & video by my friend Ethan of The Exclusive Document.

So, Internet, I hope you can forgive me. I may not be perfect, but, well, I’m actually not sure how to end that sentence.