The end of the BufBloPoFo

I started this blog just in time to participate in The Fortnight, and when I click on "Publish Post", I will have done it. 14 posts, in on time, one a day, for two weeks. Dang. Back in the Heyday of the dhka, I never remember hitting it this hard, that was two or three articles in a week. And there was rust on the old melon-jelly (I just made that up. It means "brain".), but somehow I shook out several hundreds words. Yea for me and yea for everyone else who successfully participated. Meh for those who were less than successful. Bladdily-boo to those who didn't even try. Mackely-frap-kanoob to those who still don't know what the BufBloPoFo is.

Since I didn't have a blog a year ago, I'll just write myself a few notes to be answered a year from now:

Did you pass the bar yet, dummy?
Did you get a job yet, lazy?
Did you buy a house yet, house-less guy?
Do you have dependable transportation?
What was your favorite car?
Are you still keeping in touch with your friends thru the blogosphere?
Do you ever socialize with anyone in person?
What's your favorite planet?
Are you still brewing your own beer?
Do you have a business model in place yet to start selling it?
Do you still want to own a bar?
How much do you weigh?
Does Zeppelin still rule?

Alright, that should serve as a good follow up to this year's Fortnight and be a nice place to work from next year. Congrats to all those who stuck it all the way out. I may not have read every word of every person's blog, but I recognize what a challenge it was, and I salute you.

For those who were just spectators this year, remember: once mustache month rolls around, it's time to start thinking of the BufBloPoFo. I recommend you stop blogging in mid February, and save up all of your good ideas. Otherwise the content starts looking a little thin round the tenth.

Cheers to Garvey for initiating it all, and for following through despite two beautiful baby reasons to ignore his computer. If you ever leave your house and I ever get a job, I'll buy you a beer.

The infernal boob tube

I don't watch a whole lot of tv. I have 800 channels with the DirecTV, which is awesome. I highly recommend DirecTV. But the shows I watch tend to be those which do not require writers. I do like House, MD and the girlfriend likes Bones, so we watch that. But I'm mostly watching Food Network, Discovery Channel, History Channel, Comedy Central. The staples are Good Eats, Diners, Drive-Ins and Drives, Iron Chef, Mythbusters, The Universe, or anything about the amazing human body, bigfoot, or most shows with the potential for boobies. I also watch a lot of sports and sports-themed programs like SportCenter, PTI and Around the Horn. I don't think there's enough in my television efforts to make a whole post here.

According to this trend, the final BufBoPoFo post will be three sentences. There should be a big celebration of the BufBoPoFo. This weekend, why don't we all get together. We should have a parade. Your thoughts?

Apologies for the quickie

You'll excuse my brevity, I'm between calling hours and a wake, but wanted to be sure to fulfill my BufBoPoFo obligations.

Many people probably don't know that I had a series of recurring sleep-robbing nightmares about alien abduction which did not stop until I started telling people about them. I am scared of the dark, but I wear a slumber mask when I sleep. I am kind of shy, which is most of the reason I am a dick to you the first time I meet you. I have no idea how I will cope when my dog dies. I rarely get hung over, and I can always drink the next day. I am a good cook, and a great baker - even if Alex doesn't give me a certificate therefore. I don't know if I want to be a lawyer. I don't like to brush my teeth, and only do it two or three times a week. I'm embarrassed by my weight, and genuinely hope to bring it down. "The moment if truth" is on in my house.

Most people know: I'm happiest on stage; I like to drink; Poopy smells like poopy; and there ain't no party like a west coast party.

See you tomorrow - two more posts, bitches!

You ask, I bindly follow

1. What is your favorite word? What is your least favorite word?

Would you believe I’ve never thought about that? I sure do like “fuck”. It’s so versatile. I love “yes”. I love hearing it in intimate moments. I like “awesome”, especially when folks use it literally, like Alex is sometime wont to do. But my favorite it probably “boobs”, for obvious reasons. My least favorite is either “no”, (see above, and extrapolate) or “moist” which just sounds creepy.

2. What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally? What turns you off?

Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana always gets me going, and NO not just O Fortuna, the whole thing, especially In Taberna and the shit from the duck’s point of view. I do not like being told to figure something out. Nothing stops the creative juices like being told that I am creative and should just do something creative.

3. What sound or noise do you love? What sound or noise do you hate?

I like percussion, especially when rocked out by John Bonham. While I don’t hate it, female vocal soloists usually make my eyes water, and sometimes make me cry.

4. What profession other than your own would you like to attempt? What profession would you not like to do?

I’d love to teach. I wouldn’t love cleaning up vomit or excrement.

5. What is your favorite curse word?

“Fuck”, although I like “douche" a lot but that isn’t really a curse word.

6. If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?

“Don’t worry, I thought all that stuff was funny, too.”

What kind of a sick world are we living in?

There are people in the public eye who expect a certain level of professionalism from their prostitutes. I feel bad for the soon to be former governor. Although as far as most people know I am not personally into any borderline dangerous deviant sexual behavior for which I have to pay, I would expect whomever is the purveyor of such a service to keep their fucking mouth shut about it. Of course, I don't know much about His Honor's situation yet, but somebody leaked information, and if you happen to deal in the elicit sex trade, here's a tip: silence is golden. You don't get a seven diamond rating blabbing about who likes to choke you and who likes what excrement on them. Charlie Sheen's name came up during the Heidi Fleiss "scandal". Hugh Grant got caught with his British wiener in some hooker's mouth. Eddie Murphy gave that tranny whore a ride home. You see, people in the public eye are in a difficult position. They are famous enough or have enough power or influence to pick up chicks everywhere. But chicks can't be trusted. You go pork a bunch of broads and you get the HIV or you get sued all over the place or some silly bitch puts a picture of you together on her myspace page. So you finally have the ability to bang mad chicks, and you can't do it. What do you do? You find a high-class hooker. (And that shit is expensive. I never understood paying the Niagara Falls whores forty bucks for a blow job, let alone some broad in a four star hotel three grand. But I've never had an extra three grand. Shit, I've never had an extra forty bucks.) But part of the service that they provide is the confidentiality. Fuck, man. If I can't trust a whore, who can I trust?

So what's your point? Of view?

I am not from Buffalo. This gets confusing, you see, because when I'm out-of-town and someone asks me where I'm from, I say, "Buffalo". I live in Buffalo. I am one of the few people who moved into this city. All the rest of the movement seems to be in the opposite direction. There are several of us in this little blog ring who came to Buffalo to go to college and stayed here to live. This affords us a different perspective from you "townies". I may think of local locales differently.

To give you an idea, when friends of mine from out of town comes to visit, the places I would take them might differ from the places some of you might take your peeps. Sure, I go to the Anchor Bar, but usually that's the first day if possible. We go there to get drunk and do most of our reminiscing - the chicken wings are secondary or, perhaps more correctly: tertiary. And I make it a point to take visitors to Duff's. Anchor Bar may be the original, but that doesn't necessarily make it the best. I think Duff's has Buffalo's best chicken wing, and that's saying something. Also, you Buffalo people have no idea of how lucky you are to have so many great breakfast restaurants. I've never been to a city with more Greek places (although presumably there are several cities in Greece which might have more). And the Greek are good at two things: naked statues and breakfast. Imagine for a moment my young life, when Denny's was pretty much the only game in town before noon. Pano's or The Olympic is pretty much a lock for out-of-towners. Also, beer is awesome, which leads to a trip either to the Pizza Plant or Pearl Street Brewery (or hopefully both). The Buffalo Brew Pub is also good, but to me, Pizza Plant has the best fancy beer selection in town. (Sidebar, bitches: Cleveland is a super-fun town and home to a regional chain called The Winkin' Lizard which rocks out about 100 different fancy beers. Awesome.) The rest of the itinerary usually centers around things which many Buffalonians take for granted, something like The Falls, The Zoo or Shakespeare in the Park.

I like this town, and I'm proud to call it my home. The weather is no where near as bad as people outside of Western New York think it is, and there is a great theater and cultural community. Too bad we can't transplant the Steelers up here.

Picking it back up

Alright kids, sorry I got off of the BufBloPoFo topic list yesterday. I felt it necessary to keep everyone up to speed with the events that make my life so much fun. Yesterday's experience was one of these rare beautiful episodes. I left out several details of the story. If you see me around, ask me about the weird noises in the rest-stop bathroom, the guys who wanted to buy The Kid's car, the girl at Delta Sonic or the other various supporting characters would filled in the colorful back drop of this story.

Getting back to the BufBloPoFo, I don't carry much stuff in my wallet. I have a bunch of random business cards, but they are people that I either do actually call, or people who have offered me their card "if I ever need it". I have a Subway Card, which apparently replaced the card with the stickers or the stamps, but I don't feel like I earn any free shit. I carry my Law School ID, but that's because I'm cheap and I still ask for student discounts. There is not, nor do I foresee there being, any money.

Catching up, I am listening to Led Zeppelin. I love Led Zeppelin and they will always be the music that I first reach for. I recently put together a little mix to listen to while I'm blasting my delts, with Beastie Boys, Public Enemy, Metallica, Guns n' Roses, Prodigy and other various up-tempo high energy junk. I assume that no new music has been made since 1993.

I apologize for the uncharacteristic brevity of the post, but there is beer to be drunk, and I am just the guy to drink it.

Fuck! I have ten minutes to blog!

Shit! I had a whirl-wind day which lead to this: my first blog post from outside the comforts of my bedroom. There's no time, I'll sum up. This morning, My good friend, who, for the sake of anonymity will henceforth be referred to as "The Kid" and I decided not to do our (new) daily workout - I'm a weight-loss god - in order to drive to Cortland, New York so that he could buy a car. You see, The Kid's dad is a car salesman, and had a line on a great deal on a car for The Kid, but in order to have some bargaining leverage, The Kid had to make it look like he wasn't desperate for the trade-in of his old ride, hence the presence of a second driver to roll the turd-mobile back to Buffalo. We left Western New York at about 8:30, figuring the two and a half hour drive down, some fuck around time at the dealership and the two and a half hour drive back would have us home around four, easy peasey.

So The Kid calls his dad/dealer around 10:15 as we're rolling into Syracuse, and is encouraged to stop and get his car washed and detail cleaned before trying to trade it in. The fine chap at Delta Sonic (once we found it) told us it would take about a half hour. An hour and fifteen minutes later, a gentleman came out of the wash bay and informed us that there was an issue with the vehicle. The Kid informed him that we didn't care, because we were on our way to get rid of the car anyway and to just bring it out, there, of course, was the rub. The turd wouldn't start.

We pushed the now dead turd out of the wash bay into the drying area and sat looking at it for about twenty minutes. The Kid got the idea to unhook the fuel injection line and spray some starter fluid in there. We are smart. After a fairly loud bang, the car still hadn't started. we did see some promise, however, which prompted us to disconnect the fuel injector again and spray lots more ether into the engine. The turd started like no turd has started before. We arrived in Cortland around 2:00, significantly behind schedule.

A beautiful car was there waiting for us, and after the dad/dealer went through some features, the turd made it through the trade-in test drive and a deal was struck, we waited for the paperwork to be drawn up. Many cigarettes were smoked. Once he was presented with the contracts and shit, The Kid started reading them (un-fucking-heard of). The fucking guy found some errors, and everything had to be re-drafted. More smoking. Upon second look, more fucking shit was wrong. More smoking. The papers were fixed, the check was written, the credit card was swiped. A phone call was made to the credit card company. The card was accepted. We went out to the car to leave, at which point the dad/dealer initiated the enrollment in OnStar, a twenty minute process.

At 4:00 we drove off the lot, and went to my parents' house, five miles away. When I'm that close, I stop in for a visit. At 4:30, we left my parents'. We got subs. I ordered a six inch with no cheese or mayonnaise. See the above discussion of my weight-loss goditude. We got on the road.

Rumors of the snow storm running from Buffalo to Syracuse were not exaggerated. We arrived in Buffalo at 8:30. So many cigarettes we sacrificed today. We drank two beers.

The Kid needed gas for his snow blower. My girlfriend and I decided to hang out at The Kid's house for the evening, but I had to go get the dog, who had been alone at my house for 13 hours. We hopped in my car to drive to my apartment and a gas station. At 28 degrees, my car overheated in under three minutes.

We added coolant. It didn't help. We added more coolant and some oil. I am not good at basic maintenance. My girlfriend drove down to the apartment, picked up me, The Kid and the dog. We returned to The Kid's house and I sat down. Then we smoked more cigarettes, I mixed myself a cocktail and realized I had ten minutes to post.

This kind of shit happens to me all of the time.

What makes a man?

I was into surprisingly average and pedestrian stuff as a kid. Surprising, you see, because I am now such an eccentric genius. Although my mother would certainly take offense, I have fond memories of being raised by the television. I loved Mister Rogers and Sesame Street. I started to like Scooby Doo and Thundercats, and have since moved to Myth Busters and porn. A pretty obvious progression, I think.

I’ve never been much of a pleasure reader, but in my youth I enjoyed Choose Your Own Adventure books and Encyclopedia Brown. Presumably, I still would. Since finishing school, I’ve tried to read more (some Dan Brown, some Dean Koontz, the Harry Potter series) but I have way too nice a tv to waste time on that crap.

My favorite toys were Construx. They were a Fisher-Price building parts set with beams and connectors instead of traditional or locking blocks. They discontinued production in ’88, eventually sold the rights to Mattel, and Matter relaunched them for a couple of years in the ‘90s without a lot of success. Apparently, there is a vocal group of people who also loved these things, as evidenced by the surprising web presence. And the surprising web geeks who have pictures of shit they have made lately out of Construx. I would have posted a picture from this dork’s site, but I respect that he wrote “copyright” at the bottom of his page. I am considering putting in an eBay bid on one of the dozens of sets available. Also, I am considering moving into my parents’ basement and wearing a Star Trek uniform all of the time.

But the most formative influence on me in my youth was almost certainly the one-two punch of athletics and an athletically superior older brother. Those who know me might agree with the statement that I am competitive. This stems directly, I imagine, from playing sports from an early age. Luckily, back then it wasn’t okay to lose. We kept score, we knew if we got our asses kicked, we knew who the worst team was and we didn’t want to be it. This translates from the obvious competitions (gloating about sales statistics posted in the restaurants where I worked – and belittling the rest of the staff) and into a curious habit that I (and several of my friends) have of finding a way to make everything a competition. Remember when I tried to eat 5 pounds of cheese in an hour? On two different occasions? How about the hours spent in Schoen’s garage using a hockey stick to fire a tennis ball past a “goal keeper” (see also: drunk guy with a baseball mitt and canoe paddle)? WE ARE ADULTS! And yet, I am currently trying to talk the guys from Tuesday night basketball into driving to Elmira to challenge my brother’s team. I figure that now that he has had both knees reconstructed and is awaiting the birth of his second child, I can finally take him. If not, I’ll tell mom he cheated and he’ll get in so much trouble…

Stick with me, kid

Is there a right way and a wrong way to do everything? Certainly, there are many wrong ways to do many things, as we all see everyday. Over the years, I discussed how to do several things: brushing off your car in the winter (do the hood and roof, too); opening doors (look for the hinges, if you see them – pull); using an elevator (off before on). I could fill volumes telling the morons around Western New York how to drive in snow (why can no one remember these skills from one snowfall to the next?). Once in a management training exercise, we had to explain how to make a peanut butter sandwich, which is less about etiquette and more about hilarious.

People may have heard my diatribe on men’s room etiquette, but since I doubt anyone else involved in the BufBloPoFo will cover it, I’ll repeat. Ladies, take a walk – it’s man time.

Upon arriving at a wall of empty urinals, it is generally accepted to take the furthest urinal to the right. An exception exists for a bathroom laid out in such a manner as to make the right-most urinal also the closest one to the door. In such an instance, choose the urinal furthest to the left. If any of the urinals are occupied upon arrival, choose a urinal at least one spot away from the occupant. It is imperative that this rule be observed. If an appropriate urinal is available, you must not crowd anyone there before you. Understand, it is not necessary to retreat to a stall if there is an available urinal, but given the choice, leave room for the Holy Ghost. You are expected to look either a) straight ahead, into the tiles of the wall (if you are provided a newspaper, consider yourself lucky) or b) up, to the ceiling. I don’t care if you are looking down at your own junk, to the peripheral visionary, it’s questionable. If you can’t whip out your tool and honk a whiz without looking, stay home and practice. Most home bathroom sinks are low enough that you can piss in them, and they usually have a mirror, so you can practice pulling your dick out while looking straight ahead. Discussion is discouraged (even if you know the person you’re next to – think of the awkwardness that the other patrons would have to endure if you are chatty in the lew). If you feel you have to talk, limit your conversation to this comment: “This water is cold”. The obvious implication is that your penis is so large, that it falls into the water of the toilet, and is sensitive enough to recognize the difference in temperature. You may make this comment to anyone who is also at the urinal. If you find yourself receiving such an advance, there is one acceptable and necessary response: “And deep.” The implication is that your penis is also large enough to reach the water, and so large in fact that it would only be contained in the toilet if the water was deep. This is the limit of acceptable urinal discussion. Once the flow of pee pee has stopped (but not before!), shake, squeeze or otherwise remove any excess drippage from the tip. Disregard anything you may have heard about “if you shake it more than twice you’re playing with it”. First of all, play with it all you want. That’s what it’s there for. Secondly, putting your cock away with piss still dripping out is not comfortable. Make sure you’re ready for the re-panting. Third, if you don’t gain an erection, what’s the harm? Shake it as much as you feel is necessary, put it away. FLUSH. You must always flush a public toilet. I don’t care if you subscribe to the “if it’s yellow, let it mellow” school of thought in the privacy of your own privy, but in public, send it down. Then wash your hands. Once again, I don’t give a fuck how many different strains of wiener fungus you allow to chill out on your mitts when you’re at home, wash your goddamn hands after you piss in public. People are watching. Without going into a lot of detail with stall etiquette, before you go for a door, look for feet. It is uncomfortable enough in there without somebody rattling the door. As a general rule, if you’re in the stall and you hear somebody come in, wait for them to leave before you exit the stall. We all know you were crapping, and it probably stinks. We don’t need a face-to-face, or any future meetings will be made very awkward. If at all possible, wait it out. Then wash your hands.

If you have any questions, feel free to contact me directly.

Casting Couch

Make yourself comfortable, babies. It's the age-old question: do you select a foxy actor to play you, or down-play the narcissism and go the other way. The answer I always give when some one asks me who would play me in a movie is Richard Kiel. But upon further reflection, let's take this a little more seriously. I am tall. I am funny. I frequently have a mustache. I am kind of a dick. Sounds like somebody I've seen a lot. If he can pull off some more of the subtleties, I vote for Vince Vaughn. I've really only seen him play one character (over and over), but I'll give him a shot.

What about our young Mr.Garvey? Of course, Todd Benzin is one of my all time favorite actors, and there is no question in my mind that he could play even someone of the depth and intricacies of the Garv-ball, he's too high-price. All those who fell in love with Vince "Dave Hoffmann" Vaughn in Fred Claus already know about the undeniable on-screen chemistry of Vaughn and the newest Hollywood sensation to play M. Garv: Paul Giamatti! He has a beard, sometimes! Just like Garv!

I'd also like to see Mark Wahlberg in there somewhere. I don't know who he'd play, but I like him, so he's in. We'll have a scene in a bar, and he can be that bartender. After that scene, some Winona Ryder/Alyssa Milano pillow fighting seems in order. The film would be directed by Savage Steve Holland of Better off Dead. Score by John Williams, arranged by Danny Elfman. Bill Fraker (Tombstone) would shoot it, and for some reason, it would be set in the wild west (MUSTACHES!).

What went right today?

Jesus, Garvey - what a topic. Not only do I hate Mondays, I hate everything. That's kind of my thing. I've been the surly guy for quite some time. (Several of my associates are on constant vigil for "Surly Dave". If you're looking for him, invite me to a crowded bar or a poker game. He'll show up real soon.) Sure, I smile and laugh - but everybody knows I'm pissed. I dare you to find pictures of me without my middle finger up. (That's why none of my Senior Portraits made the UB Law wall of fame. Too lewd.)

Sure, I have a lot to be thankful for, and there are a lot of things that I appreciate, but I am not a guy who celebrates the things that go right. Yes, Dave - that is the point of the exercise. Hey man, back off. BufBloPoFo Rule 3: "You can write about anything, but [Garvey will] post a daily topic in case you need some motivation." Ha! My topic today is: why I am not writing that which was suggested. There are to be no comments about all the great things that I should be happy about. I have great friends, I brew my own beer, I have a dog. True, true, true.

But it takes more muscles to frown than to smile, and all of you are lazy. In a wonderful country where (as my friend Schoen points out) you can drink water right out of the taps, where I throw away enough food to make half of Africa weep, where I get pissed because there is nothing to watch on my 800 television channels, where people rarely get killed by their government for complaining or voicing their opinion, where I can get into an automobile and drive for two days without anyone's permission, I choose not to be happy. Being happy is taking the easy way out. Being happy is what any jerk with two working legs and two working arms can do. Posting on his interweb log about how happy he is - that's something that any doofus (who owns his own computer right in his house, and has it connected to the internet, and has the education and intelligence to effectively communicate with a virtually limitless number of people throughout the world) could do.

Fuck man, forget about how sweet your new car is, or that your boss took today off, or that that fingernail that you crushed in the door and it turned black finally fell off. I'm sufficiently psyched every time I sit and reflect about the complex coincidences that fell into place to make any and all of this possible. What ever alien life form accidentally sneezed onto a pod that flew into the ether and caused some big bang which sparked a single cell to divide and mutate into a fish which walked onto land and grew hair and sprouted wings and survived an ice age to end up as me sitting in front of a computer, thinking of words that cause my fingers to dance across hunks of plastic that used to be dinosaurs and transmitting a rambling stream of consciousness out into the world. Fuck, bro. That's what went right today. That kind of shit goes right every day. I don't get particularly excited about the smaller stuff, because I'm still too busy trying to wrap my head around the fucking humongous stuff.

But that's not really what you were looking for, huh? I went to Subway today, and for the first time ever, I ordered a 6 inch sandwich, no cheese, no mayo. I'm a weight-loss god.

Best gift ever.

Those of you navigating here from the Toybox are no doubt chasing the BufBloPoFo. Welcome. You should know the homework assignment for today is for me to discuss the best gift I ever received.

Obviously, that has to be the gift of the BufBloPoFo from Mike. It is this challenge that brought me back to cybernetics. (I know what cybernetics really is, but it sounds like something internet-related, so I'm trying to change the meaning of the word. I'm pretty sure that isn't allowed, and that's what makes me so bad-ass. I am a vocabulary renegade. Chicks dig the grammar bad boys.) Okay, you know what? Mike didn't really give me anything, so screw this.

In the summers between years in college, I went back to live in the home-ville with my parents. I also hung out with my friends and drank heavily and frequently. I would often come home late at night, and in an effort not to disturb the sleeping parents by stumbling about, I would hang out in the living room, watching television and sobering up. If you remember the late 1990's, you might recognize that the late-night programming often centered around the information-based commercial. These info-mercials, as they are known, are one of my favorite forms of entertainment. I had no problem plopping down in front of the tube and watching any of a myriad of amazing products available for three easy payments. Occasionally, after a period of time, my mother would get out of bed and come investigate who was watching television in her living room at 3 o'clock in the morning. Without fail, I would be watching an info-mercial, and more frequently than you would imagine, it was the info-mercial for the Ronco Electric Food Dehydrator. I love Ron Popeil, and would happily sit and watch him peddle novelty dog crap, as long as he keeps asking me "Now how much would you pay?". Whenever any Ronco product was being info-mercialized, I would watch. And my mother frequently found me watching that particular program. So when my birthday came around, there was a big box, full of the Ronco Electric Food Dehydrator. The machine sucked. It took a long time, and nothing tasted particularly good. I don't even know where it is - it got lost in one of the several moves I have had in the last ten years. It is not the best gift I ever received, it is just the best back-story. Shit, what was the assignment for today?

One time I sold my watch to buy wife a hair comb, but she had cut her hair to buy me a watch chain. Oh wait, that wasn't me.

It is starting to seem that I either never get good gifts, or that I'm an ungrateful fuck. I vote for the latter.

Actually, I got a great gift in celebration of the birth of our Lord and Savior last year. My girlfriend bought me a beer home-brewing kit, which I have already used and enjoyed. My friends seem to enjoy the product of the gift as well, and it has sparked a new hobby, inspired some new learning, and enabled one of my favorite addictions. This is the current reigning champion best gift. I am now a home brewer, and I like that. I have brewed three different kinds of beer, and I look forward to brewing a thousand more. If you are smart, you'll start being nice to me, and maybe you'll get invited over for a home brew or two.

Oh, and if you have any (non-twist off) bottles that you'd like to donate to the cause (new bottles cost 13 bucks a case at the brew supply store, and used bottles are just as good), your gift of bottles will be on the list most thoughtful all time.

BufBoPoFo Begins!

Big ups to Mike for spear-heading this whole thing which has served to lure me out of, well not retirement really, so much as apathy or laziness. So with the challenge of keeping up with the CybersSmiths and OnlineJoneses, here we are. Since I am inherently awesome, I already met the requirement for the first post. I was told to talk about my favorite soup. I decline. Some things are personal. True to my original concept, I will write a rambling stream-of-consciousness piece. I will continue to check in with the toybox for future topics.

The first day of March is more than just the beginning of the Buffalo Blog Posting Fortnight, it is the end of mustache month. For several years, I have declared February to be Mustache Month. (Take that black people and women! It wasn't enough that you already had to share the shortest month, now you've got to compete with mustaches.) I don't know why it started, but a few years ago, three or four of my friends and I decided that we would have mustaches in February.

The guidelines are quite simple:
You are to have a mustache February first, not start growing it that day. I recommend starting a full beard during whatever winter holiday vacation you are awarded from your miserable job (editor's note: if your job isn't miserable, go fuck yourself. Everyone else's is.) By the end of January, your mustache should be able to stand alone. If it cannot, you are either a poor candidate or the perfect candidate for Mustache Month. More explanation will follow.

As you are trimming and shaving your beard, keep in mind that the mustache may not go lower than the corner of your mouth. This is a general rule, to be interpreted on a case-by-case basis, but the intent is to prohibit "handlebar" style mustaches. The hairs of the mustache may grow to any length (Wilford Brimley and Sam Elliot are welcome), and it is encouraged that by the end of the month the mouth be covered, but all hairs should generate from above the "mouth-corner line".

Facial hair on the cheeks or chin are prohibited during Mustache Month (sideburns should end at the bottom of the ear), obvious exceptions being made for five-o'clock shadow or lack of shaving laziness.

Any trimming of the mustache during Mustache Month is discouraged but allowed.


All are invited to participate in the exhibition phase. If you are doing so, the rules are more relaxed. Rock out a mustache, and be covered so that when some asshole says, "What's up with the mustache?" You can say, "It's Mustache Month, asshole." Those who wish to participate in the competitive phase are required to pay their entrance fee and abide by a more strict interpretation. For those brave souls who have a regulation mustache and have paid their entrance fee February first, the game is on. The winner is the last one to have a mustache.

Do not be confused. We grow the mustaches, and then wait to see who has the balls to walk around looking like a goober in a mustache for the longest. Most people break down within the first week. Having a wife or girlfriend seriously hurts your chances, as they constantly tell you how ridiculous you look. Last 'stache standing keeps the money. This is why people with horrible mustaches make great candidates for Mustache Month. The concept is that we all look like idiots, so if you look like an idiot, you fit right in.

It hurts to think we are so far away from the start of the next Mustache Month, but you can take solace in the fact that every day brings us one day closer.