Recently, I’ve discovered a new love and appreciation for Led Zeppelin. I know. I’m about 30 years late to the game on this one, but I’m hoping there’s some room left on the bandwagon.

I can’t say for sure why or when I finally figured out that they were pretty good. It wasn’t like I hadn’t heard them before. I’ve been aware of them for as long as I’ve been aware. But one day, just over this past summer in fact, their music finally made sense. I think I was driving around Sacramento, to be exact, when it happened. I was driving alone on the 5 with my stereo playing, listening to the radio because I’ve had the same Helloween CD stuck in the player for months, and I can’t get it to eject. (And as much as I love their 14-minute epic “Keeper of the Seven Keys,” it bothers me that I can almost recite all of the lyrics with a straight face.) “Over the Hills and Far Away” came on—a song I’ve heard countless times before—and though I never thought it was a bad song, I don’t think I’d ever really heard it before. A few minutes later, the volume was blasting, and I was singing along, even though I didn’t really know the words (one of my favorite pastimes).

Ever since, I’ve been hooked. I don’t own any of their albums, but the good news is, I don’t have to. I do the majority of my music listening in the car—as I’m sure most people do—and lucky for me, there is no shortage of stations that will play Led Zeppelin songs. It’s a satisfying experience for me, being someone who has often fallen for more obscure bands since getting hooked on Nirvana in the ‘90s. With lesser-known bands, you really have to work (or used to anyway) to get your hands on their music. You couldn’t just flip a switch and hear them—no fancy equipment necessary.

Now I can understand why they’ve had such longevity. Jimmy Page’s guitar work is a metaphysical brew of bluesy riffs, proto-metal crunch and psych-rock atmospheres. Robert Plant sounds like I would imagine Gandalf the Gray would if he were a rock ‘n’ roll frontman. And that rhythm section gallops like a horde of Visigoths. In short, they’re the musical equivalent of a Boris Vallejo painting. Given my well-documented love of metal (read blog tittled Death Metal), I can’t believe I’ve never liked Led Zeppelin before. It was like when I finally discovered a taste for eggplant; as an Italian-American who’d never liked the vegetable before, it was as if I’d at last become whole.

Recently, it was announced that my new favorite band (well, one member at least) will collaborate with my all-time favorite band. Sonic Youth will perform, with Led Zep bassist John Paul Jones, a piece of music composed by Takehisa Kosugi. The gig will be to commemorate the 90th birthday of choreographer Merce Cunningham, composer John Cage’s life partner and long-time collaborator. The Merce Cunningham at 90 event is scheduled for April 16–19 of next year and will take place at the Brooklyn Academy of Music.

As exciting as I find this news that some of my favorite musicians will be performing together on stage, I have to say I’m not a big fan of avant-garde composers. But who knows—30 years from now, I might start feeling it.

James Barone
jb@submergemag.com

Post from: Submerge Magazine

By Bocephus Chigger

Admit it. Everyone has done it in some form or another at some point in their lives… usually in their teens. It might begin when the boredom becomes unbearable, or it may need no impetus at all. No, I’m not talking about sex or drugs, or even stealing. I am referring to that certain form of mischief that only a teenager knows. So, grab your eggs and toilet paper and remember: It’s not about revenge. It’s more about the hilariousness of the idea that someone is going to wake up, see the mess you’ve made and wonder what the hell happened.

I’ve done my share. I didn’t grow up in the most exciting town, but we made it work. In my neighborhood, pedestrian paths tied several cul-de-sacs together; so it was almost too easy to make a quick getaway. Having that sort of freedom led to frequent, precision attacks on random neighbors I didn’t know.

For example, a friend and I regularly put bologna on some poor schlub’s car. We heard that bologna would peel off paint, but it only managed to leave greasy polka dots. When bologna was scarce we switched to Spam, which makes a delightful plopping sound upon impact. We also conducted weekly bombing missions on two Volvos around the corner. The reason was simple: anyone with two Volvo station wagons was asking to be egged. To help with the cleaning process, we would follow up with some toilet paper.

There is something about that roll… the way it just glides out of your hand, unraveling as it floats toward the tallest tree branch. At first we chose houses based on difficulty of cleanup, but soon we discovered a couple of favorites. The first house must have contained a wild boar, because the snoring sounds we heard from the front yard could not have come from a human. We didn’t even have to be quiet since there was no way that guy was hearing anything but himself. The second house was perfect; the yard was full of giant trees (the tallest on the block) and their branches were spread just right. Three of us filled our bags with T.P. and went to work. Within 10 minutes the yard was devastated. As we prepared the final two rolls, we heard the door open. While trying to blend into the shadows, we watched a short, fat man step out on the porch wearing only his underwear!

When we weren’t out disrupting the sleep of fat men in tighty-whities, we’d hit up the Goodwill parking lot on the after-hour tip. People would leave the weirdest shit: couches (fuck yo’ couch!), an organ, refrigerators, a giant stuffed flamingo, and a puppet that a friend later named Bocephus Chigger [see above photo]. We would fill up my truck and either scatter the goods in random places around town or smash them somewhere. Soon, we branched out and began “borrowing” other things we found around town. Depending on the season, we could have been hauling traffic cones, pumpkins, political signs or plastic balls from the McDonald’s playground. The idea was this: the weirder, the better.

It wasn’t long before our looting began to pay off.

Sometime around Halloween, we found a pool just over the fence from the pedestrian path. Trash collection went into high gear, as this was to be our pièce de résistance! On a cold October night, we formed a sort of bucket brigade from the bed of the truck to the fence. The goods passed from hand-to-hand, over the fence where they hit the pool with hilarious results. In minutes, the pool was filled with several large pumpkins, a stack of traffic cones, a toilet plunger, a purple velvet robe, a stack of newspapers and the entire contents of a napkin dispenser. It was truly a sight to behold (and one that we would never enjoy again, as the pool was thereafter under police guard).

I miss those times… the world was a different place. People today are so uptight that a kid could get shot for burning a bag of shit on someone’s doorstep. Maybe it’s time we all grab a roll or two and cut loose. Tell the world that you want your fun back! Tell them you are ready to be a kid again! After all, being an adult is hardly all it’s cracked up to be.

Post from: Submerge Magazine

By Bocephus Chigger

I’m not gonna lie… after the last two fiascos, I was worried. I had lost faith in others, and who could blame me? After eight years of stupidity, war, greed, corruption, God-pimping and fearmongering, there didn’t seem to be much hope. The world had officially gone to hell in a hand basket (and I ain’t talkin a Longaberger!).
I can’t just blame President Bush or the Republican Party; the problem went much deeper. Something had driven roughly half the country bat-shit crazy. I wanted to believe they had been glamoured by Count Cheney, but I knew there was more to it than that. Despite not knowing the source of this lunacy, its effect was clear: America had lost its way.

The brain-damaged half of the country was happy with their brain-dead president and his team of know-nots. They were ready to swallow whatever shit was shoveled their way. They turned off their brains and changed their outgoing message to “FOUR MORE YEARS!!!” “SUPPORT THE TROOPS!!!” and the tragically comical, “U.S.A!!!” Differences were answered with cries of “TERRORIST!” A horror flick had become reality and the media was immediately smitten.

Those in the news business met up to decide which piece of this mindless bitch they could claim as their own. Fox News was appointed as the White House Press Secretary and Geraldo was shipped off to fight Al Qaeda. CNN put a bowtie on a small retarded child, named him Tucker, and unleashed him on the country until he was stopped by Jon Stewart. MSNBC’s Chris Mathews literally figured out how to talk out of his ass and proceeded to subject the world to his bungie-flower every evening. “Newsertainment” was born, but it still needed guests. Fortunately, some of the worst politicians in history just so happened to be in office at the time and they all wanted their turn on the m-i-c.

The Republicans drilled into the earth and summoned Karl Rove from Hell. “Turd Blossom” recruited Donald Rumsfeld, John Ashcroft and Alberto Gonzales to say things so confusing that it would take the public, the courts and the world over eight years to figure out. The Democrats, trapped in a recurring wet dream involving the Clinton years, did little more than shake their finger at the GOP. (“Bad dog! No earmark!”) With all of the scolding going on, the left had no time to choose a candidate with even a semblance of personality; of course, they were under the influence of a Sith Lord (I’m on to you Lieberman!). After eight years, we were broke, unemployed and homeless, and the government was busy picking fights around the world.

Many figured the end was near, until someone held up a sign calling for change. The battle between old and new began, and it was epic. On one side, probably the closest thing to the American dream, Barack Obama; and on the other, the self proclaimed “maverick” John McCain. Of course, they brought along friends; Obama had Joe “The” Biden and McCain had Sarah “The Warrior Princess” Palin. I’m not sure I will ever figure out why McCain chose the mom from Bobby’s World as his V.P. Perhaps he was hoping to parlay the campaign into some kind of variety show. If that was his plan, he forgot one simple fact: this country knows shitty TV, and it smelled that turd-burger from a mile away. On Nov. 4, 2008, with clothespins in their noses, America elected Barack Obama the 44th President of the United States by both a majority of the Electoral College and the national popular vote (imagine that!). I hate to admit it, but I cried when I heard the results. For the first time, in what feels like my entire adult life, I was truly proud to be an American… then I checked California’s propositions.

What the fuck is wrong with this state? California overwhelmingly votes for change with Obama and then proceeds to ban gay marriage and shoot down two attempts at reducing our dependence on foreign oil? California, the first state to legalize marijuana for medicinal use, decides against easing prison over-population by letting non-violent drug offenders opt for treatment programs? Apparently, we have better things to waste our money on, like riding a bullet train into economic derailment. Congratulations assholes, thanks for stomping on our prosperity!

Post from: Submerge Magazine

If Switzerland seemed like a cleansing spring shower, then Rome was like walking into a filthy steam room (thankfully, without the naked fat guys). The city is covered with ruins in various stages of decay. Some sites were truly awe inspiring, but many had suffered the ravages of time and took serious imagination to appreciate (legalizing drugs in Italy may help with this). Fortunately, Rome has more than solitary columns and decapitated statues to enjoy.

The food easily makes up for anything Rome lacks. Gorge yourself on the four Ps: pizza, panini, pasta and pastry. Of course, don’t forget to finish off with a quadruple scoop of gelato (do it, fat boy!). You would think with all this food around, loose clothes would be clutch, but the Italians beg to differ. Prepare yourself for tight-ass jeans, booty shorts, Capri pants and body-clinging shirts… and that’s just the dudes.

If eating and people watching isn’t your thing, maybe you should check the tube. The first show that caught my attention was Commissario Rex. Rex was a tough cop who didn’t take guff from anyone. Unfortunately, Rex was also a dog. Needing more Turner and less Hooch, I moved on to a game show. I still don’t understand the premise entirely, but it started off sort of like Double Dare. The contestants were a 15-year-old boy and a woman in her early 30s with huge tits, which she pretty much rubbed in the boy’s face at every opportunity. In addition to competing in physical challenges and pop culture trivia, the contestants dressed up like rock stars and performed covers with a live band. After 30 minutes, the contestants were forgotten and the show inexplicably switched gears to a body-type showdown. A runway was brought out and the game became fat vs. skinny, tall vs. short and, of course, big tits vs. no tits. With this last piece of the Italian culture puzzle now in place, we decided it was time to move on to Paris.

Another city, another airport… we were seasoned vets. So far, we hadn’t had any trouble; but our luck was about to change. Easyjet requires you to check in at least 40 minutes before takeoff. Brocephus and I arrived at the airport with just minutes to spare. The concierge was nice enough to ignore us for about five minutes while she pretended to do shit on her computer. Of course this meant that we had now missed the 40-minute cut-off for check in. Thanks to Easyjet’s awesome customer service, we had to pay full price for a later flight and got to enjoy the airport’s luxurious metal chairs for 12 hours (yay!).

The Easyjet bitch slap at the airport cut our three-day stay in Paris to two, leaving a lot of ground to cover with not much time to do it. As if that wasn’t bad enough, Brocephus had begun speaking some hybrid form of Italian/Spanish, thoroughly confusing everyone we encountered. Despite the language barrier, we managed to see, eat and drink our way through much of the city without incident. We even made a concerted effort to get a Royale with Cheese, but France’s love for McDonald’s proved to be a serious barrier. Leaving France burgerless and exhausted, we headed back to the States.

After the longest travel day of our lives, we settled in at Brocephus’ apartment for a little shut-eye. Signaling the end of the trip, Brocephus woke up the next morning and abruptly vomited on the floor. What a fitting end to three weeks of excess.

Post from: Submerge Magazine

Congratulations, North Korea! On Saturday, Oct. 11, the Bush administration announced that Asia’s most mysterious communist nation is no longer on the list of states that sponsor terrorism. I, for one, am glad.

I don’t know much about Korea, or Korean culture, other than Jin and Sun from Lost are pretty sweet. I’ve also eaten at a Korean barbecue joint once and was really impressed. The table was just full of raw meats and spicy pickled things; and in the center of the table was a grill and fire pit so you could grill your meat to your liking. I got drunk on soju and didn’t even have a hangover the next day. Overall, I was pleased. However, I’m sure North Korea isn’t as bad as they’ve been made out to be—just a bit misunderstood.

Relations between the U.S. and North Korea have never been all that good. There was that war in the ‘50s that never really got resolved. Back in 1994, things seemed to be lightening up in the two countries’ tumultuous relationship, as President Clinton signed a similar agreement with the North Koreans. That all went to hell in 2002, though, when the Bush administration pegged the mysterious communist Asian nation as part of the “Axis of Evil,” an announcement that ruffled the well-coiffed feathers of North Korea’s enigmatic and creepy leader Kim Jong-Il. The situation really got interesting in 2006 when North Korea detonated a nuclear device, changing the Bush administration’s “Fuck you!” attitude toward Pyongyang to “Hey, guy. How’s it going?”

An uneasy accord was met. In 2007, “six-party” talks (including Russia, Japan and South Korea) were held. Thanks to those meetings, North Korea kind of sort of agreed to halt their nuclear activities…probably. But in 2008, those shaky ties looked about ready to break. According to an article in the New York Times, just days before the Oct. 11 announcement, North Korea had barred international inspectors from a plutonium plant in Yongbyon. In a last ditch attempt to make it look like they have done something positive in its eight years in office, the historically stubborn Bush administration made a compromise. Imagine that.

The deal doesn’t really change the situation all that much. U.S. inspectors will now have access to the Yongbyon plant; however, whether or not inspectors will have access to sites international experts suspect may be used to make weapons grade nuclear material remains to be seen. Inspectors will now be able to gain access to such sites “based on mutual consent”—good luck with that. For its part, North Korea gains a modicum of international acceptance. They’re no longer that disturbed little child picking the wings off flies at the kiddie table; now they’re breaking bread with the big boys…just as long as they mind their manners and don’t ask for seconds.

The Oct. 11 announcement raised the ire of Republicans. Presidential nominee Sen. John McCain complained “that North Korea had yet to demonstrate that it was serious about adhering to its commitment to denuclearize.” Meanwhile, Democratic nominee Barack Obama was like, “Whatever, I’m going to be president soon anyway.” (I’m paraphrasing.)

Maybe we’re just making a big deal over nothing. For all his eccentricities, maybe Kim Jong-Il isn’t as insane as people think. Maybe the only way to get noticed as a player in international politics is to wave a loaded gun around. If it’s truly going to be a global community, doesn’t that mean everyone should have a voice? Perhaps it’s the only way he could ensure the safety of his government and his people—to create a sort of stalemate. Maybe if everyone had The Bomb, everyone would go forth in peace. I’d like to give the world a nuke? I suppose it has a ring to it.

James Barone
jb@submergemag.com

Post from: Submerge Magazine

It was a hair past midnight. We were entering a land where words were meaningless (at least to us). After a short skip across the continent, we had arrived in the medieval city of Prague.

Prague is the embodiment of beauty. The aptly named “old town” area of the city is filled with immaculately maintained gothic architecture. Feeling lost in the Lego castle of my childhood dreams, Brocephus snapped me out of my daze in time to realize what else we were surrounded by: beautiful women! Each was prettier than the next and my jaw began to hurt from scraping on the cobblestone sidewalk. We had truly found “Eye-Candy Land,” and I refused to blink for the next three days. As if my senses weren’t already overwhelmed, we soon noticed that the main drag was lined with strip clubs, bars and hot dog stands. The innuendo was heavy as I saw many bangers eating foot-long dogs like champs (bangers having bangers?).

However, not all was good in Prague. For example, Czechs use consonants like they are going out of style and put them where they can’t possibly go. With street names like “Truhlarska,” asking for directions was out of the question. Fortunately, I had my trusty Garmin to guide me… or so I thought. In honor of my country, I decided to take a piss in a Subway bathroom (word to Jared!).

There I was ready to free of my bladder of its burden, when all of the sudden the Garmin slipped out of my hoodie pocket and into the bowl. A small splash and a few bubbles provided the eulogy for this burial at sea. Jared, like the Garmin, you are dead to me. With furrowed brows, we wandered Prague aimlessly until it was time to move on to our next destination: Amsterdam!

The effects of the wide availability of marijuana quickly became apparent upon our arrival. Walking through the airport, we were trapped in a bottleneck created by an employee who parked his cart in the middle of a narrow walkway to enjoy a sandwich. As people pushed past him, he starred out the window in complete and utter bliss. I should have realized that I too would be there soon.

Amsterdam is the kind of place where the average 16-year-old American male might go into seizure from overindulgence. Brocephus described Amsterdam as Disneyland with weed and hookers. Though I didn’t see Walt Disney’s frozen head, I did catch plenty of people losing their minds. While it wasn’t quite ghost ridin’, I saw people jumping out of cars to dance in the streets (which I caught on video). I really can’t blame fools for losing it, though. Imagine being surrounded by lingerie-clad women, weed, drank and food; now add narrow streets filled with people, cars, bikes and scooters. Throw a few canals into the mix, and you have Amsterdam.

The weed alone is enough for some people. Amsterdam is full of “coffee shops” that sell herb in its various forms. There are detailed “descriptions” of each type’s supposed effects that include such phrases as “uppy high without a comedown” and “no munchies” to fool hippies and weed nerds. Despite the help, we managed to meet a German guy who happily purchased some Thai weed that looked like it came off a brick (do some research, homie!). Others ignored warnings and bit off more than they could chew.

For example, there we were, on the back patio of the “Jabba the Hutt”-esque Flying Pig Hostel. A dude from New Jersey and I talked for about 10 minutes before he inexplicably toppled like a tree. Down he went, face first with one hand at his side and the other clutching a McDonald’s cup, which exploded upon impact. He awoke for about two minutes before crashing again. Fortunately, he was placed in the loving hands of a bartender/attendant who gently whisked his high ass off to dreamland.

He may as well have stayed awake because Amsterdam is a dreamland in and of itself. Only in a dream could I absorb so many toxins and still live. However, like all dreams, my time in Amsterdam had come to an end. So, with space cakes in our stomachs and visions in our heads, we set off for Switzerland!

Bocephus Chigger
bocephus@submergemag.com

Post from: Submerge Magazine

Bocephus Chigger
bocephus@submergemag.com

Life can be monotonous. We travel the same roads day-in and day-out, hoping for something better to come along. We fall into ruts that seem impossible to escape. At some point we all want out, and I am here to tell you that it is possible. There’s a whole other world out there, just waiting for you… all you need to do is start saving (good luck!). While you’re figuring out that hustle, allow me to regale you with my own tales from the Chigger Brothers’ European Vacation.

After months of preparation, it was time to do the damn thing! My brother, Brocephus, and I spent the afternoon burnin’ it down, sipping on screwdrivers and taking inventory of our gear. By 6 p.m. it was time to board the plane for our nine hour flight. Loving air travel as much as I do, I decided to cope by sucking down free booze until I passed out. After swilling beer, wine and gin, I was ready to either yack or crash. Much to the joy of the elderly woman on my left, I chose the latter.

In hindsight, drinking myself to sleep on a germ-laden airplane probably wasn’t the best idea; and the three-week malaise that followed took its toll on the Chiggers. By the time we landed in Heathrow Airport, your boy was sniffling, sneezing and coughing like a Nyquil commercial! Not letting a little phlegm get in the way, we boarded the Piccadilly line of the Underground and headed into the city. We had made it to our first destination: London, England.

Ah, London… where bars stay busy from around 5 p.m. until last call. Brocephus and I ended up at one of London’s many corner pubs with two completely shit-faced Brits. One, who happened to be rockin’ a dead front tooth, was cracking jokes and talking shit while his friend, Holla Man, tried to get up on every girl (including a 37-year-old, unattractive accountant). Eventually, my brother convinced Holla Man to talk his way into the Spearmint Rhino strip club across the street from the bar. Off he went with only his wits and two finger condoms (produced as if by magic!) to protect him. Unfortunately, a security blockade was soon in full effect. My brother tried to reason with the tit guardians, explaining that Holla Man was fully protected, but it was to no avail. We set back to drinking and, as the pint glasses stacked up, the Brits became harder to understand; so, we headed back to our bed-farm for the night.

The next day was supposed to be museums, churches and landmarks galore; however, Brocephus needed help recovering from the previous night. On a tip, we headed to Camden Town to score some of the real good. We began our quest by asking people looking for charitable donations where the Al Green was at. Some felt slighted since they were out there for charity, but they didn’t realize that’s exactly what we were looking for. Soon enough, we met a South African dude with a Henry (the eighth), who was kind enough to smoke us out. After walking about a mile to find a quiet spot, he unrolled his sack only to find that he had just bought a $60 napkin! Feeling pity for our new friend, we hit the streets, asking suspects where we could score. After several false starts, we found a man who had his two kids sell us a dime bag for $40. With nary a head change and much lighter wallets, we spent the next few days seeing the sites, climbing to the tops of copulas, getting rained on and soaking it all in.

After a while, our differences became apparent. Obviously, the Brits drive on the wrong side of the road, but there are other things: bacon=Canadian bacon; condiment packets are tiny and include something called brown sauce; the pigeons are ridiculously fat; you don’t tip at bars; and when the voice on the Underground announces you are riding toward Cockfosters, no one laughs. Fortunately, they make up for their shortcomings by filling their museums with priceless “borrowed” artifacts and flooding the streets with above average tits. That’s right; the gawking had begun and just in time for Prague… stay tuned!

Post from: Submerge Magazine

Bocephus Chigger

I must be certifiably insane. To some this may not be a revelation; in fact, admitting it has been a long time coming. How do I know I’m insane? There have been signs in the past: attachment issues, light compulsiveness, depression, self-abuse… But in the end, it took three years of law school to sober me up to the truth: “Hi, my name is Bocephus Chigger, and I am a lunatic.”

To put it simply, no sane person would go to law school. My daily workload went from nothing to 60 hours-a-week. I mean, I like to read and write, but that shit is ridiculous. Add to that the anxiety of getting called on in class to explain one of the 10 cases you read last night. Now, multiply that by 100 for each person in class adding to the mix and feeding off it and, voilà: Law school! Sure, it gets a little easier as you go, but it’s just a tease. They just need time to finish the barrel you are about to be bent over, more commonly known as the California Bar Exam.

Ah, the Bar Exam… The legal community’s way of saying, “This isn’t over yet.” The party starts right after law school actually finishes. By this point, you have already paid around $5,000 for BarBri courses and administrative fees. Thankfully, you can take a loan out to cover it and make the rest of your $150,000-plus debt just a little cozier. In exchange, you get to wake up early to go park your ass in the most uncomfortable chair in the world, all while listening to someone try to reteach you everything you have forgotten over the last three years. This is your life for the next 10 weeks.

When Day 1 of the exam hits, you are ready to pop. Thankfully, the examiners make this situation easier on you by having more arbitrary rules than the FAA. I don’t know what I was thinking trying to bring a plastic Safeway bag in there. I guess I will have to wait until after the test to suffocate myself (thanks, Bar Association!). I was also glad to see the only source of drinking water allowed in the room was a half-mile walk away. There is no better way to pass a timed test than by wasting five minutes to have a glass of water.

Day 2 features 200 multiple choice questions that you have six hours to complete. Not only is this mind-numbingly boring, but reading 200 fact patterns in six hours melts your brain. After exam day ends, exhaustion, hunger and inability to hold a conversation all kick in. Enjoy the night off in your semi-retarded state, because tomorrow you get to wake up early and do it all over again…only this time, you get to write essays all day!

At 5 p.m. on the third day, the proctor calls time. Huzzah! We are finished! As if by magic, alcohol appears in your hand. In one smooth motion it makes its way into your blood stream and up to your brain. Let the drunken wandering begin! If you are like me, you may end up hollering at a lovely woman named Erin while she is on a date with a guy she met on Match.com. After giving up on that one, you have your favorite bi-weekly free magazine hook you up with some tickets to the Ghostface Killah show so you can see the God bless the mic in person. Of course after the show, it’s time to start drinking again. Before you know it, it’s 4 a.m. and you have been up since 6 a.m. the day before.

Now do you see? Only an insane person would voluntarily do this to themselves. And yet, somehow, I survived. Pushing yourself to the limit can be a valuable learning experience, but I don’t recommend the Bar Exam as your vehicle of choice. You don’t want to catch the same crazy I did. Now, if you need me, I will be on a corner in downtown Sac begging for change to pay off my loans.

bocephus@submergemag.com

Post from: Submerge Magazine

If we have known each other for longer than a year, you probably are aware of my issues with cell phones. Here is a fun fact: I did not have any form of on-person communication until I was 27 years old. That includes pagers, two-ways or cell phones. Unless you had two cups and a long-ass string, we talked face-to-face or on my home phone (what you hipsters call “a landline”). Like all good things, my cell phone-free life eventually came to an end. I held out for as long as I could, and even though I finally got one, I still had issues.

One of the main reasons it took me so long to get a cell phone was that I didn’t like the way many people acted on their phones. I always despised the people that broadcast their conversation to the entire room. No, asshole, I don’t care that you just bought a new Benz or that you haven’t talked to so-and-so for ages.

With the shrinking of cell phones, the phenomenon began to spread. All I could do to retain some form of sanity was to fill in the other half of the conversation in my head: “That’s really too bad about your sister being a whore,” and, “Don’t worry, just put a little cream on it, that rash on your balls will clear up in no time.” It was like live-action Mad Libs.
It got worse when people started wearing the wired earpiece. For several months, I thought strangers were having random conversations with me on the street. I wasn’t sure if I was going crazy or they were. Everyone had a wire sticking out of his or her ear. It was like the secret service and local newscasters were everywhere. They walked and talked, staring blankly off into the distance, caught up in a dream world of their own importance.

Of course, when they weren’t walking, they were driving, thus combining two things that tend to piss me off the most. I was a commuter for a few years and you would not believe the dumb shit I saw on the road: people talking and eating at the same time; people with a cell phone in one hand and an electric razor in the other; and people texting while reading the paper. Of course, these “multi-taskers” were oblivious to anything around them, which was why they weaved all over the road while going 50 mph in the fast lane. By the time I stopped commuting, I thought I had carpal tunnel in my middle finger from serving up fuck-yous all over the causeway.

Apparently I wasn’t the only one who daily feared for his life. This year the California Legislature passed a new law banning all but hands-free use of cell phones while driving. Today, wires are out and Bluetooth is in. I think it should be renamed Redtooth due to the countless accidents that will be caused by using that ear-clinging bastard. Any hopes of increased safety can be put to rest once you try answering the phone with one of these while driving. First you have to find it, then get it around your ear, turn it on and hit the answer button. By the time you’ve achieved optimum talking position the call is gone. Some of you are saying, “Why not just leave it in?” I didn’t want to be the one to say it, but you look retarded.

Making a call is twice as fun since voice recognition technology is total crap. “Call Paula” apparently sounds like “Call Corey” to my buddies at Verizon. Cussing at the phone only leads to awkward conversations during which the phone decides you are trying to call someone. Thank God, I don’t know any Chucks, Kits or Richs.

Human beings were meant to do a lot of things; having a phone hanging off your ear all the time is not one of them. Some of you think your phone makes you look cool. I see you around town flossin’ that Bluetooth, talking on the phone while you eat lunch with a friend. Take that shit off…you are being an asshole and you look like you sell books for Time-Life!

Bocephus Chigger
bocephus@submergemag.com

Post from: Submerge Magazine

I have a love/hate relationship with food. I love to eat it, cook it, talk about it, learn about it and dream about it, but I hate shopping for it. Once a week my body cringes as I prepare my list and head off into the unknown. It’s not that I don’t get excited to replenish the fridge with tasty vittles; no, my hatred can be pinpointed to one cause: the grocery store.

I try to be all business, but it never seems to work. The pain sets in at the parking lot. Nine times out of 10 it’s complete chaos: killer carts on the loose, cars everywhere and people busy dreaming of that Ben & Jerry’s they just bought instead of watching for my crazy ass. All I want to do is park and get this crap over with, but you were lazy and left the cart in the only open spot, or it is taking you an hour to unload your 60 kids from the SUV (I’m stealing your support the troops ribbon magnet, punk!).

Once I find a spot two miles from the entrance, I make my way toward the mouth of the beast. The problems continue as I try to find a cart that doesn’t drive sideways. I have considered bringing my own wrench to fix the wheels on these pieces of shit, but I figure it would only mean that I am there longer. Even if I were to fix a cart, a homeless person would probably steal it anyway. In case you didn’t know, they have all the good carts. Advantage: homeless.

I tend to start off in the produce section; the fresh food makes me feel alive. Everything looks fresh and delicious until you get close. Why is half this crap beat to hell? Why even bother putting it out there? Is there some idiot who buys the apple with the worm hanging out of it? You could at least bury that funk at the bottom of the stack. But no, you put the good fruit down there so that I have to tangle with the precarious fruit mountain. When all the nectarines hit the floor and roll across the store, don’t look at me; after all, you stacked them. Please don’t take this to mean that you shouldn’t even bother. I get more pissed when you haven’t restocked. What kind of crappy grocery store runs out of oranges? Raley’s, I’m looking at you.

Produce can get me riled up, but my biggest pet peeve is the other shoppers. I feel obligated to tell everyone to go in there with a plan, make a list. Damn it people, you don’t have to look at everything and figure out how to cook it! We all know you are going to end up with twenty cans of tuna and some Lean Cuisines; so quit bullshittin’! If I get stuck behind one more person who is tortoising her way down the middle of the aisle, I may have to hit the beauty section for some razor blades. I have only slightly less anger for the people riding the mart carts. If you are handicapped, do your thing, I ain’t mad at ya; however, if you are just fat and lazy, get the hell out of my way. Maybe if you weren’t in the grocery store so much, you wouldn’t be in this predicament. At least look at this as a chance to get some exercise. Yes, you can shed pounds by pushing around that cart full of bacon, baked beans, beef, American cheese and Diet Coke.

In closing, to prevent me from killing you, I have made the following handy list of commonsense rules for you to follow: Don’t park your cart in the middle of the aisle while you figure out what kind of pasta to get; don’t get in the 15 items or less line with a whole cart full of shit (count dummy!); don’t order 15 pounds of fifteen different kinds of meat at the deli counter; and don’t ask me to donate money to some cause after you just charged me $70 for three bags of groceries. I hate you all.

Bocephus Chigger

Post from: Submerge Magazine