So, I've been playing Christmas songs for festivals and parties and busking in front of the post office lately and now people know me as that "Handsome fellow who sings and plays guitar.". And when I got a cold this wendnesday, someone called the police and reported me missing, because I'm ALWAYS out there and I wasn't for two days. Happiest and saddest moment of my life. Happy because someone was worried about me, sad because the police knocked my door down while I was making tea. It was Earl Grey, too, fresh from the store. The insurance covered everything but my wonderful tea which was sadly spilled from the shock I got when my door imploded. "Sir! Please place your hands above your hand and disclose the location of that handsome young man who plays carols for tips!"
So, after buying a cheap door and a ticket to an art expo, I took some robitussin and hit the streets. After showing up to every place I've played at and told them to please not send the police, I won't be in. I've got a cold. Cough cough, wheeze, dead. The woman at Starbucks felt so bad for me she made me sit down and then she brought me some hot coffee. That was awful nice of her, the recession brings out the best in everyone! Except, you know, people who have stuff to lose... Like money or a job, or, like, their cardboard home. Whatever. Also, I can' pay rent, and the wireless connection in my house is, like, laggy. not at ALL like our old neighbours from the apartment next to us who had unsecured high speed. Sadness ensues.
I'mma go take some medicine, put on a MIchael Crawford CD and take a nap. Damn you recession, giving me plenty of sleep that I don't need! What I NEED is a nice job. Heh.
But before I go, ya'll should know that fame kind of sucks. I've missed two birthday parties and a coming out party for a festival gig. True, I had more fun and met tons of people at the Fall Festival, but those people didn't invite me to their gay party. Yet. And what kind of friend doesn't do that, eh?
Alright, I'm job hunting again, and there are tons of problems with the current infrastructure of finding a job. The recession screwed up tons of businesses, and thanks to the handouts to big car manufacturers (We'll all be riding bikes in several years because gas is too much now. Think of what it'll be like when Arabia stops supplying America with oil because we just bombed the hell out of them for hiding terrorists.) the American dollar is lower than ever. This means less jobs and more unemployment. Sad day. As food costs go up and people willing to pay for nice dinners go down, the fine dining industry is pretty much screwed. So my place of employment can't pay me, and now I'm jobless, as well as a very kind chef named Daniel and a pretty waitress named Julie. The other five or six people were boring. And from the '70s. Because appliances are people, too!
So, I'm back on the unemployed list, which means I can't pay rent, which means I'll be on the streets. If you don't want a handsome young guy like me roaming around in your neighbourhood, sleeping in your bushes and eating your pets, you'll send several hundred dollars to the Save a Mikey fund. It's a good cause. And when your children start losing their lunch money to the 'New Guy', it's probably just a normal bully.
On the bright side, I have applied for a job as an assistant librarian. Hooray, old books and internet access and tons of time putting those stickers on the back and cover! And with all the summers I spent volunteering down there, shelving books, giving back massages, reading to small children, going repo on people who didn't turn in the books in the same or better condition they got it in, I'm WAAAYYYY more qualified than the busty blonde girl who applied after me. And I can read.
Intelligent.
So, that coupled with my crippling phobia of papercuts makes me very happy, very sad and very anxious.
Tips for a successful interview!
Because you guys need all the held you can get.
1. Be attentive. No yawning or asking for cooled water, because, this stuff tastes like Satan, maaaan. 2. Mantain eye contact. Blinking is not necessary. 3. Proofread your resume. No one wants sum1 hoo rites lyke dis. 4. Be respectable. Showing up naked in a painted on tuxedo dosen't count, unless you're working in a less than savoury part of town. 5. Show you would be a good person to hire. 6. By kicking a hole in the wall, biting the copper wire into an amusing shape and giving it to your interviewer. Everyone likes aminals! 7. Have good people as references. If you can get the local mob boss to back you, you've got it. 8. However, the Boss will want your family as collateral. 9. They're in the house. FLY YOU FOOL, FLY!
So I've been sitting here, quiet for fifteen minutes because I'm babysitting my little brother and I'm SICK of his stupid voice. He dosen't pronounciate anything clearly, and he mumbles CONSTANTLY, usually about how stupid everyone is and how damn clever blah blah blah. If I had a nickel for everytime someone said "Mike, that's not your brother is it?" I would have enough to pay rent for this week. Or atleast enough to buy enough alcohol to make him seem quieter than he isn't.
-punches wall-
Alright, I feel better now. Thanks, UG! Now, on to the next part!
I made a holiday. Inspired by Tim Burtons The Nightmare Before Christmas, I've mixed Halloween and Christmas. This isn't just plagiarism, however, as it was partially inspired by my lust for candy and playing dress-up.
Pictured: A proud supporter of Hollomas
s Basically, we wrap up candy and travel door to door in Santa costumes and throw candy at the people who open the door. And by 'we', I mean me, my husband and anyone we can lure away from their homes with the promise of candy and tricks. Last year we had a mob of frat boys follow us around and throw eggs and beercans at people. 'Twas much fun.
Happy Hollomas, UG! And remember! This is what popped up when I typed in 'trojans' on Google Images.
So, last night I went to prison and Wal-Mart, but not in that order. I'm not the kind of person who likes to work off a night in the tank by browsing through fat person clothes. Because, really, that's what they've got at Wal-Mart. Every time I go in there looking for a new pair of jeans (29-34's, certainly not fat person clothes by any stretch of the imagination, thus not in Wal-Mart) or a shirt (Small Fitted. Also not avaible in Wal-Mart) or underwear (for a man with a lengthy wang. And since fat people are big in the wrong places, it's NOT AVAILABLE IN WAL-MART), not my reasons for going into Wal-Mart span several categories, objects and a severe distrust in those people in blue and white uniforms. But I digress. With my newly broken ankle, and the huge matrix that is The Wal-Mart, I figured "No way in Hell an I going to wander around this place on crutches. No.", so I got a little power buggy from the front of the store, tied the power chord around a bigger buggy. Since God knows I can't just buy one thing in that store, and I like to browse, and feel like I can buy whatever I want. Hooray for credit cards. After filling up my buggy with condoms and tampons and driving by and tossing them in peoples carts(Like a drive by shooting, but the only thing hurt is their sense of embarassment), I scooted on over to the produce aisle. All of five hundred torque pushing against the sack of cat food that fell infront of my buggy. (Seriously. There were like five fifty pound bags of cat food in front of my buggy, caught in the wheelwell. That's Two hundred and fifty torque atleast. I also knocked down my six foot tall brother and 'relocated' the entire camping section.) Ain't got nuffin' on Handicapped buggies
So after filling up my buggy withFrench Bread (♥ if you've never tried it, go get some. It's amazing for sammiches ♥ and doughnuts, I suddenly had an idea! I could press down the beeper, so it sounds like a flatline, and then drive in circles in the middle of Wal-Mart! Thus, I put doughtnuts in your doughtnuts so you can spin while you eat.
Well, the officials had something to say about that. And those words were "You're coming with us, sir.". So I, of course, tried to make a break for it. Of course, it's awful hard to run when you're on crutches. So they caught me and put me in (Dun dun duuuun!) Wal-Mart-Prison. Good news: I got a good deal. Bad news: it was Wal-Mart brand.
Also, how about this new chat function? Pretty nifty, but it feels a lot like Facebook, but without the 'Go Offline' function. Or maybe it's there, and just not usable. I'll ask the guy caught stealing videogames about it next time.
Current mood: Independant, no matter what she says.
So, I've spent this whole week in bed, listening to Phantom of the Opera (Michael Crawford, obviously. The best Phantom ever. Sure, Gerard is an amazing actour, but the way his voice turns gravelly when he holds a note just annoys me to no end. The Phantom was classically trained, his voice wouldn't have that edge to it.) and surfing the net on my new laptop. Now, since I've gone through a whole semester of AP classes with nothing but pen and paper and a hundred year old desktop, I find this a wonderful improvement. It's got all sorts of goodies on it, like Solitaire, and Minesweeper, and Lemmings. Perfect for those long, boring anatomy lessons. Atleast I've got a bright future in the Military, right?
Listen for a little bit, then go up and give an oral, and sit back down and watch the other students. I get straight A's anyways, which exempts me from speaking every day, but every month or so I get to walk up mumble something about the reproductive system, the bones in the human foot, and sometimes I get to outline the process of the brain. Blah blah blah. Win an award, turn down a residency, the usual. Now, with the power of the laptop, I now spend my time not doodling the cardiovascular system, no! And certainly not sticking pencils into the ceiling, NOR staring down Amy's, fourth row third over's low cut sweater. Often.
This is a sweater. Not THE sweater. But a sweater nonetheless.
But, back on myself, I've been enjoying this week very much. Broken ankle or not, laying in bed all day eating Doritos and chatting is very fulfilling. Not morally, or monetarily, or even very much fun once those Doritos start burning and smelling, and you realize your friends are all self-obsessed idiots(Oh, the irony.). HOWEVER. In my thores of boredom, I decided "Hey, I'mma go look at UG. Haven't been there in AGES!". So I came back, rejected several friend requests read some spam, replied to said spam, and went to my main page. AND LO AND BEHOLD, WHEN DID I GET SO POPULAR? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE? DO YOU USUALLY JUST COME TO MY PAGE, BUM AROUND AND THEN LEAVE WITHOUT COMMENTING? Lordy lou, you should be ashamed of yourself, teasing an old cripple.
Those tears are from pain AND sadness.
So what's a Mikey to do but blog about this atrocity? Well, I hitched up the wheelchair and drove down to CNN headquarters, which is awful hard to do with no legs, and those jerks in the blue cars with the flashy lights. Why, I could've had an epileptic person in my car with me, they could've hurt someone! So, after telling CNN about the horrible lack of commentors, and all the damn lurkers, and putting some cream on me bum from the burn after they threw me out... I went home and recorded some piano. However, since my MP3 player won't upload to either of my computers, you can't listen. Sorry.
Oh, and donate to the Mikey Needs a Surgery Fund, please. It will go to pay for food and painkillers and maybe surgery, if it turns out I need one. And I just might. I've been walking around lately, and my doc says that's a no no. Screw 'im, I feel fine. After telling him "I just need to walk it off!" and him informing me that "You can't walk, you've got a fracture on the Tarsus bone of your right foot! You'll be crippled for life!" and putting me in a cast, I am now unable to move without a nurse kicking my door opening and shotting me full of Morphine. Wonderful.
Well, I don't think the bookcase will hold her back much longer. She's tough. So tough, in fact, that when they made her biography into a movie, the only one buff enough to play her was a man. And that man was The Terminatour.
Hiyo, kiddies! I know, I know, I'm never on anymore, huh? Well, I've been very busy as of late, what with a praise band, several movies that I've been going to, and a TON of AP classes. Kids, take AP Music Theory. It's so much fun, and you get to transpose Turkish March to the Key of C, as opposed to A. FUN! AND IT'S NOT LIKE ANY OF YOU HAVE EVER LEARNED A LITTLE MUSIC THEORY, RIGHT? THIS IS UG, NOT BS.
However, in my throes of ectasy for having a life(as well as a nice job as a pianist for a local restaurant that pays me very well.), I wound up jumping off a balcony onto a hill with a seventy five degree or so angle downward, effectively breaking my ankle and severing some ligaments and tendonds and such. Which sucks. But it's a good thing that it happened now and not two weeks ago, because I had two dancing parts for the locall production of Fiddler on the Roof. But now I can't drive to work anymore, since it's required by law that you use your right foot. And I can't. Piano is still fine, but I HATE USING MY LEFT. >_< But it went snap, crackle pop, and it went really numb, which usually means there's something horribly wrong here.
So I said my usual thing when I get hurt/nervous/turned on. "Hey dudes? I think I broke my _____. Kiss it and make it better?" followed by a suitable amount of pouting and lowerlip shaking. After me mum drove me to Urgent Care and got me a brace a bottle of Vicodin, we went home, and I blogged about it on Facebook. Search me. It's crazymike100.
So now I'm sitting here, missing going to the movies every day and going to the park to do gymnastics and scream at the footballers. Because, really, football is one of the gayest sports ever. That and wrestling. Two men in a ring dressed in silk underwear fighting over a belt? How is that any more manley than Ballet, where atleast the men can do a fucking split?
And I say so because I got the most lovely tutu at a thrift store the other day. I had to beat a small child away, but it was worth the claw marks to my face and neck, since I GOT IT FOR ONLY FIFTY CENTS. HA! aND GUESS WHAT i GOT FOR A DOLLAR?
A wedding tuxedo, and it fit like it was made for me.
If I was two feet fatter.
But I also got a wedding dress that fit nicely, it's too bad I'm giving it to my girlfriend. We're getting married, and she wants us to look nice. She says "Mike, there's no way you're going to be able to find something that will fit me in a thrift store. We're going to take your royalty check from Fiddler, and we're going to go out and buy us some nice clothes, and it'll be just like old times!" ♥
And I leave you on that note, because my ankle is about a seven on the Pain-o-meter, which means it's time for my narcotics. Night!
So last week I went to the dollar theatre to see the movie Twilight. I've heard some pretty bad reviews about it, but hell, I thought, it can't be THAT bad! I mean, there's no way in hell a movie can possibly be worse than Bruno (which sucked, btw. Nothing against gay people, but everything against Sacha Baron Cohen)
If you see this man, you're in his new movie!Congrats! Go see yourself in theatres, and sue his ass!
And guess what? Twilight made Bruno look like Brokeback Mountain(which was a good movie, btw.) The ONLY thing that made it worth the five dollars I spent on the ticket was that I didn't buy the ticket. My crazy stalker girlfriend whatever did. Also, she brought snacks and threw CD's full of hardcore porn labeled "Edward Cullen" at preteen girls. But I digress.
The acting was terrible, the glitter herpes made me want to choke Stephenie Meyer until her stupid whore brain understands that AIR IS FOR SMART PEOPLE and all the screaming fangirls in the theatre lowered my Facebook IQ by ten points. It's amazing that a whole summer after the premiere there are still twitards wandering around with their Edward Cullen T Shirts and mouthbreathing idiocy. Though it was fun to sprinkle myself with glitter and lean against the wall and talk to the more stupid specimens of girl.
Also, who knew that girls could rape men? Fucking scary shit there, man. This will cause you hurt.
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go file a report against Stephenie Meyer and her brainwashed rapist army. See you on CNN!
So yesterday, while talking to my Grandpa Miekeh, the subject somehow changed to the subject of Lord of the Rings. After thoroughly ranting about the amount of words Mr. Tolkien uses("That man could describe a wall in five chapters.") he began telling me the story of a hobbit.
This is that story.
Once upon a time, in a land not too far from here, lived a Hobbit and his beautiful wife. They both lived in splendour and happiness, but sometimes the Hobbits wife would leave for a few hours, then come home and eat ice cream and watch re-runs of Dethklok (Because she rocked.). Thinking his wife was getting into trouble with one of the Hobbits from next door, one night he confronted her about it. They had a huge argument, eventually ending with the wife promising to take him where she went when she wasn't there. And she did. Three days went by, when suddenly she looked at her watch, told her husband to get over here, we're going, and ran out of the door into the Mercedes. After picking herself off the ground and dusting herself off, she calmly opened the door, let her hubby in, then drove off. His suspicions roused, he noted that she didn't stop at the neighbours, not even at the neighbours neighbours. Nor at the neighbours neighbours neighbours. Or THEIR neighbours. She drove off past the towns gates, through the forest and to a bbig mansion that sat atop a huge hill. Now, this particular mansion scared the hobbit, as he was very small... And the house was so very big! Made even bigger by the fact that it was on top of a large hill. He began to shake. His wife, seeing his discomposure reached over and patted him on the head and said "now, now. Nothing would ever harm such a cute little thing like you." And he was relieved. His relief soon left him when he entered the house. The foyer alone was larger than his entire house. And as he remarked so, he also noticed the state of disrepair the home was in. His wife liked to come here and look for trinkets, she told him. Hadn't he ever wondered where all the silverware had come from, she asked him. She began climbing the stairs and telling him about the new whatchamacallit it she found upstairs, in the roof. Now, the hobbit lived close to the ground, and there he belonged. Not in the sky with the birds, and the helicopters! But he loved his wife very much, and he wanted to see what she had found. So he followed her into the top of the house. Her long, normal person legs soon outdistanced his short hobbit legs. As he reached the summit, his wife led him to a room to rest her weary legs, as she soon grew tired of his panting and huffing and shaking and weeping, so she carried him. After they had rested, she pointed to the ceiling. There was a large hole there, mildew around it, and golden light shining out of it marking the entrance to something wonderful. The Hobbits wife kicked the bed to the place under this glory hole, and climbed in. The Hobbit, being much shorter than she had a tough time of getting in, and by the time he had, his wife had already set off down the tunnel. It was a small tunnel. Small enough that a normal person had to crawl, whereas he could walk. Or run, should he choose. The tunnel was padded, and it would have been just as confortable to crawl as to walk. As he set off, he began hearing shrieking. Giving up his crawling along in bliss, he began to run. Cobwebs began to brush by his face, and spiders the size of cats began crunching under his feet. Recalling what his wife had said earlier, "You're so cute nothing would cause harm to you." he began to run faster. And for every step he took he grew more and more adorable.
And more adorable.
Until finally, he found his wife in a large room with an even larger window. Her pale body shivering in ectasty, as a young man thursted his hips at her. Swaying. Their hair wet as if they had just gotten out of the shower together. Her body curved back, and her lipsticked mouth moaning. Oh, he had never made her make noises like that. Never in all his life had he heard her make noises like that...
He would kill this man who sat before his wife so boldly, playing the guitar like the very devil himself! And as he stepped forward, drawing his sword(which he just so happened to keep with him for incidents such as these), he tripped over the microphone his wife had been singing into, and out the picture window. He had just enough time to curse all the tall, graceful people in the world before he hit the concrete walkway below.
The moral of this story is: Midgets are lame, but adorable. Guitarists will make your wife happy. And Grandpa Miekeh will never die as long as hate lives on in the heart of man.
Tumours, Porch Monkeys, and fifty dollars of cloth
Current mood: cheerful
Hello UG, how're you today?
Me? Well, Mikeys got some bad news. Mikey has a tumour. In his head. That's called a 'brain tumour', kiddies, and that spells bad news for my immediate (and future) health. But Mikey's got some medicine to stunt the growth of it, and doc says it's not malignant. Which is, like, a good thing, he said, but I'm not so sure. That means it dosen't do anything, right? That makes it, what? Lazy? LIttle sonuvvabitch is mooching! I'd rather have something in mah head that can kill me than a fatass little nothing like that. I would cut it out myself, but for some reason there is not a knife in the house. And some jackass replaced all the windows in my house with glue. So atleast I'm safe from vandals, right?
Wrong. Ya'll remember Aaron? Several blogs ago? Lost a court case to me? I got two hundred dollars out of the whole deal? Well, since he couldn't afford the payments (Because his job at McDonalds sucks. Don't eat there, he spits in the drinks.) the government paid me. Now, since someone accidently put an extra zero in the check they billed me, Mikey got... A lot. So what's a man of questionable orientation to do with that much money, the ability to make women swoon and a serious case of smooth talk to do? Well, whatever he wants.
But I forewent the mass suicide/take over the world in a blaze of death and gore plots and went shopping. Happy day! And guess what Mikey got for less than a tenth of that sum?
Five trench coats, two silk dress shirts (That my attendant said is very flattery of my natural curves. Yes, I get attendants at Wal-Mart. How awesome is that?) twopairs of leather pants and a beret. Now how, in a world where Cappuchinos can cost upward of fifty bucks, did I manage to get a ton of clothes for less than a round of shots? Well, I'll tell you in my favourite way of telling people things...
1. Find some clothes that you might like. Now, if you know your size, you don't NEED to try them on. My size, for example is 29-32 Mens, 6 Long Womens. But remember, everyone is different and you shouldn't make fun of other people because they're freaks.
2. Find a counter with a person that looks stupid. Preferably blonde, breathing through mouth and is using a calculatour. Or spelling dirty words on said calculatour. 80085!
3. Amble to counter. You may also saunter, walk, run, swagger or in extreme cases skip. Pimp walking is optional, though preferred if you can pull it off. Pictured: Smart Shopper.
4. Lean over counter and try to look nice. Put a smile on that ugly mug, no one likes a scowl! Now say in your BEST Irish accent: "Why heller there. Me name is William Schweisberg, and I'm going home ter Gallagher, Ireland next week. NOw, I don't have much money, but should it come to that, I can pay yer in cocaine and murders." Should this fail, rip off your clothes and run screaming out of the store.
5. Go home and enjoy your new clothes.
Now, if anyone can tell me what Porch Monkey means, you get five more Miekeh Points. They roll over weekends, but not monthly, and the good part: They're transferable. Bad news: You can't get anything with them. Sowwy.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to drink some of that coffee and model in front of the mirror for the next three hours. Have a nice night! ♥
Also, someone said I look like Nik Tikki (D. Gray Man) and Komui (Also D. Gray Man.) I like this.
So, if you've read my last few blogs you would know that I'm in the Fiddler production as a Russian/Bottledancer. We'll get to the bottledancing part later, but right now, we're going to talk about the Russian part. Now, our directour got us some shot glasses, a table and a room full of people in beards and told us to go crazy. After pulling me off the rafters, and putting my clothes back on, we sat down at the table and began screaming racial slurs across stage. "Hey! Yellow! Gimme some more Vodka!" "JEWS!" "HALFIE!" I still don't understand that last one, but we've got a few more months, so by the time we're done here, I'll probably have racked up more JewKills than Hitler. Yes, proper noun. No, there's no problem here.
Unless you're a jew. There might be a small problem there. But nothing a little toasting won't solve!
This is getting a little out of hand. I'm starting to feel a little sick over this. Or that might be the pork I ate last night. Raw. Because anything jews can't do is freaking AWESOME. Like sleeping in, and showing up to work to take some lunch out of the freezer, then wandering around screaming racial slurs at everything that looks the least bit Semitic.
On a happier note, the bottle dance is awesome. I especially like the last part where we slide on our knees across the stage. Being me, I've practiced that part alot. By that, I mean because it's awesome.
Now, who's ever tried moving furniture? 'Tis tough. Especially when the person you're working with is a bossy little sunuvva bitch who can't LIFT HIS SIDE OF THE FREAKING COUCH. There are three things in this world I will never do again. One of those things in move furniture with retards. The other one is wear short shorts. We don't talk about the third thing.
But it involved a mannequinn, eyeliner and fifteen pounds of nacho cheese.
ss Also, who here remembers when I shaved my head? Because I just woke up, looked in the mirror, and the first thing I heard was "Aw, fuck. It's back." Speaking of my wildly out of control hair, of course. Nowadays, I either wear a hat, bandana, or gel it back. More of a hat nowadays, because I don't much appreciate people thinking I'm a woman. Or is now a woman. So Mikey is now trying to decide whether to shave his head again (and get photographic evidence, for you fine folks on UG.) or just get a hair cut. Voting begins now, or whenever the hell you feel like it.
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Crazymike100's blogs, last updated : December 10, 2009
The insurance covered everything but my wonderful tea which was sadly spilled from the shock I got when my door imploded. 
