hegemony

ABMGC V: A New Beginning

2011-12-01T22:10:00.001-05:00

You can hear it in the crisp wind that has long since knocked the leaves from the trees: muuusssstaaache.

You can feel it in your bones, as the deep winter chill settles upon you and into your core: muuuussstaaache.

You can sense its presence all around you- in the egg nog, the cider, the holiday goose. It whispers: muuuussstaaache.

And you know it's time. It's time to hang your fur stocking from the mantle of your lip, and watch others delight in the glow of your hairy hearth. It's time for The Fifth Annual Anderson Brothers Mustache Growing Competition. It's time to rejoice, and rejoice we shall!

Where to Begin...

2011-10-15T17:41:00.002-04:00

Four months? Four mothereffing months? Where does the time go? Let's jump right into it.

We moved out of our Manhattan apartment in early July, making our hegemonic stint in the Big Apple exactly one year to the day. We had more good times than bad, which is a measurement I often use to determine levels of domination. Sierra excelled in school, we made life-long friends, reunited with old friends, and can forever say that we lived in the greatest city in the world. We'll miss the electricity, the restaurants and the stigma (see: we're better than you) of living there, but ultimately, it's so expensive that it prevented us from having the high quality of life we deserve. And for all those huddled masses struggling mightily from one day to the next, determined to "make it" in New York City, my only question is: why? Pack up shop, dust your shoulders off and head Westward, ho.

Like we did.

Party horns across the USA

Chase couldn't have been happier to leave Manhattan. The thunderstorms, sirens and relentless cacophony of living in a city of nine million nearly drove the little lamb to an early grave. She couldn't wait to stick her head out the window and feel the wind of 3,000 miles blow through her glorious mane. There's no better hound to be found on this spinning ball, and I hope she appreciates what a wonderful, well-traveled life she has. Good dog.

Our second cross-country move in 365 days began with a weekend at Gabe and Jen's, toasting our journey and playing peek-a-boo with the baddest little honey badger in the land: my niece, Grace. Living close to my family was the best part of the past year, and now being so far away from my goddaughter while she grows into her badger paws makes me sad. Quit being such a sap, she would tell me. Then she'd grab a cobra by the face and eat its heart, because she doesn't give a shit.

From there it was on to Buffalo for a night with Gina, her family, and their demented devilcat. Chase was assaulted by Luci-fur in the kitchen within five minutes of our arrival, and her anal glands emitted a mist of rotten terror. But fireside s'mores that night made up for it, and we were back on the road the next morning with only our pride left behind.

Next stop: Chicago.

Chicago is synonymous with three things: Bratwurst. Sports. And Bill. We spent the day with the Windy City's prodigal son, eating Thai food, drinking alcohol and getting to know the newest Hegemaniac and queen of Bill's bratwurst-clogged heart, spicy-cajun-style Alex. Welcome to the family, your Lexellence.

The last couple thousand miles of our trip was a blur of cornfields, Jesus signs, and highly questionable motel rooms. But as we drove through the Columbia Gorge, my hands shaking with excitement and 400 mg of trucker caffeine, we knew we were home. And it felt really good.

Sierra's sister, Janette, was kind enough to open her home to us while we transitioned back into a west coast kind of groove. Located deep in the Oregon woods, her house was a refuge worlds away from Manhattan, and it was exactly what we needed to calm our nerves after a year spent in the fast lane. Thanks, Sis, we'll never forget all of the generosity you've shown us this past year and beyond. Who knows where we'd be without you. Des Moines, maybe?

And that brings us up to this moment. We've been living in a hotel in downtown Portland for the past three weeks following a flood at the cabin. And while dealing with the flood has certainly been a pain in the ass, it's given the four of us - Chase, Sierra, Janette and myself - an opportunity to launch into the next chapter of our lives. Sierra is flying to San Francisco next week to interview for a job, and if/when she gets it, she'll be scouting out our next home in the City by the Bay. Janette will have a chance to renovate her wooded retreat in a style that reflects her own tastes. I start my new, ridiculously awesome job on Monday. And Chase has news of her own. The namesake of this blog has been diagnosed with doggy cancer, and the final leg of her mortal journey has begun. This world never had enough squirrels for her anyway, and she's looking forward to the wind blowing through her glorious mane all the way to the big yard in the sky.

So there it is. Four months. Four eventful fucking months. And things are just getting good.

Golf

2011-06-23T15:45:00.002-04:00

I've been thinking about golf a lot lately.

The challenge of it. The tranquility of it. The independence of it. The metaphor that it is.

If you know me well, you know that there was a time in my life when the golf course was my universe. I orbited around 18 planets, traversing through grassy space, avoiding sandy asteroid belts and watery black holes. I was pulled into golf's gravitational force without resistance, and my attraction to the game hit on so many levels, I sit here today confounded by the suddenness of my mission abortion.

The first time I held a golf club was in a small neighborhood park we called Round Tree. I was probably nine years-old. Original Hegemaniac, Chalm Daddy, had a junior set of clubs and he had brought down his driver and a few balls. After watching him knock the balls around the park for a few minutes, I put down my bat and glove that went everywhere with me, and gripped his driver. He teed up a ball for me, and the only thing I remember thinking as I started my backswing and then my downswing, was to keep my eye on the ball. As I hit the ball and followed through, I saw the tee leaning slightly forward. I looked up to track the ball, expecting to see it bouncing toward the end of the park similarly to the balls that Chalm Daddy had been hitting. It wasn't. Neither of us saw it or found it. We gave up the search and returned to our lives of swimming, exploring, and generally running around screaming like maniacs.

A week later, my palms began to sweat and my stomach tightened as I overheard my dad reading a community newsletter. A neighbor's sliding glass door had been broken by a stray golf ball. The house must have been 150 yards or more from where I teed the ball up that day, but I've always wondered...

I don't remember touching a club again until I was 12. I was invited to tag-along with my mom's fiancée to the local 9-hole course. I threw on my plaid pajama bottoms and tucked them into my tube socks, a la Payne Stewart, my dad's favorite golfer I knew from TV. That day, I hacked holes into the ground, swung-and-missed at inanimate objects, got stung by a bee and sucked at something that I didn't want to suck at.

Like a golf ball with too much sidespin, I was hooked.

I spent the rest of the summer on a golf course. My mom would drop me off in the morning with just enough money for my greens fees and a hot dog for lunch. I played 36 holes everyday for three months. I worked on different shots at the range between rounds and went straight to the putting green after, practicing the putts that would soon be winning me major championships until my mom would pick me up well after dark. I imagined loading the oversize U.S. Open trophy into the trunk next to my clubs.

I was a good athlete growing up. I was always taller, faster and more coordinated than the other kids on my teams. But despite dominating everyone, or perhaps because of it, I was drawn to the solitude of golf. I played against only myself: my toughest opponent. I didn't need to pass the ball or rely on other kids to knock me in from third. I was in total control of my successes and my failures. And the fact that golf lends itself to the introvert was naturally attractive as well. I was shooting in the 80s by the end of the 1992 summer.

By the time high school rolled around, I had been competing in junior tournaments all over Northern California. Spending so much time together, shuttling around in my mom's Volvo, we had a chance to bond over something I loved. I won some, embarrassed myself at others, but mostly finished within the top five at every event. A round in the 80s was a disappointment, and I was ready to be the only freshman on the varsity golf team at a school that competed annually for a state championship.

The winter before tryouts, I broke my right clavicle in half. It was an awesome skiing accident that I still brag about, and my mom likes to say the doctor told her I'd never throw or golf again. And as a quick side note, let's just say that if you've ever had the displeasure of being on the receiving end of one of my tight spirals or heavy fastballs, the doctor was wrong. But I had youth and resilience on my side, and my mom convinced the golf coach to allow a late audition once my shoulder had healed. I rushed my rehab to get back on the links, and played well enough to secure a spot on the junior varsity team.

By the end of that spring in 1994, despite my game taking a step back due to the injury, I had held down the number one spot on the J.V. team for most of the year. I was called into the varsity golf coach's office and was offered a spot on the varsity team as the alternate for the week-long high school state championships in Palm Springs.

I was the youngest by two years on that week-long trip into Southern California, and the older guys knew how to have a good time. They smoked pot, drank beer and loved to make fun of our poor old coach. Naturally, I looked up to them and they took me in immediately. They played what they called "rock 'n' roll golf." They were bent on breaking the stereotype that golf had to be boring and uptight. These dudes partied hard at night and showed up to the course the next morning with rock 'n' roll pulsating through their headphones and an aggressive approach to golf. I loved it. We intimidated the other teams by outdriving them and frustrated them by outplaying them. We even talked trash while we were doing it. Happy Gilmore had come out around the same time, and I don't think it was coincidence that my attitude toward the game did a 180.

During the next three years of my high school career, though I was consistently in the low 70s and often touched the high 60s, I never again showed the kind of dedication I had practiced to get to that point. It was clear to my coaches, teammates, family, friends, and even to me: I had the talent to take it to the next level, but I had lost the fire. After practices and matches, instead of sticking around to work on my game, I couldn't wait to get into trouble with my friends. I stayed out late on school nights and never touched foot on the golf course on weekends. Essentially, it seemed, I had burnt out.

I snubbed an offer to play collegiately at UC Davis and hesitated to even bring my clubs with me to Tucson. I'd somehow lost the love for a game that once seemed to be my ticket to the future. Only one other time in the years since did the dying flame flicker and show some sign of reigniting. I was given an unlimited play pass for a Tucson golf course between my second and third years there, in the summer of 2002. Again, and seemingly out of nowhere, I was back in love with golf. I played 36 holes a day and was better than ever. My bigger and stronger body shortened every hole, and I had discovered a putting stroke that eluded me in high school. In three short months, I had become a scratch golfer, more times than not finishing under par.

And then summer was over and the pass expired and school began. And never again since have I been on a golf course more than once in a month. It's been one year now since I put my clubs in the corner of our bedroom, leaned up against the radiator, untouched and collecting dust. Kind of sad, really.

And I've had dreams lately. I'm standing on the tee box, driver in hand, staring down a wide-open fairway. And each time I address the ball, it falls off the tee. I replace it, take my practice swing, and it falls off again. Over and over and over again, and I never get to start my round. Have at it, amateur dream analysts...

But like I said, I've been thinking about golf a lot lately, and I think I want to play again. I think I'm at a good place, where spending four hours alone with just my thoughts doesn't sound scary. I don't think I'm afraid to succeed, scared to fail, or any other cliché it is that prevented me from chasing a dream in the past. I think I'd like to play golf again, and that's exciting.

I've been thinking a lot about golf lately.

The Cat King of Queens

2011-06-05T20:19:00.001-04:00

I took the train into Queens yesterday to play some hoops with a good friend who has requested he remain nameless in this post... for obvious reasons.

You see, this particular friend and longtime Hegemaniac is a cat owner. And he's a man. And he's 30-years old. And that carries with it a humorous, yet negative stigma. No one wants to be a 30-year old dude with two cats who follow your every move, pouncing on your lap and demanding a butt scratch every chance they get. No man wants to be the guy carrying a bag of Johnny Cat cat litter through the grocery store and putting it down on the counter and proclaiming to the world, "yes, I have cats. Multiple cats." No one.

But this friend (whose name rhymes with "shma-shmowski") not only loves his cats, he feeds them catnip, allows them to box each other and gives them haircuts resembling the much cooler members of their family tree: lions. And I have to respect that. Because this friend, who likes the New York Knicks more than the New York Knicks like choking, owns up to his cat fatherhood. He didn't trade them in for a more socially acceptable canine or give them up to become strings on a tennis racquet. He embraced the fact that he is a grown man living with two cats who idolize him, who hang on his every word, and who allow him to lock them in the bathroom and shave their pelts. He is a hero to every man who secretly owns cats. He is the king of his own pint-sized pride. He is... The Cat King of Queens.

Memorial Weekend and the American Dream

2011-05-31T10:57:00.005-04:00

Three hours after leaving Saratoga Springs, Sierra and I exited the bus and were plunged into the bloodstream that courses through the pulsating veins of the frenzied madman that is midtown Manhattan. And after riding 90 blocks, packed like sardines, sticky sweaty skin pressed against the sticky sweaty skin of every stranger aboard, we stepped off the train and knew that the last four days and three nights of tranquility and slow relaxation had just been undone in 20 minutes.

But what a weekend it was...

When we got to Gabe and Jen's on Friday afternoon, we were greeted by my honey badger niece, Grace Cory. When you're the size of a football, two weeks can transform you. Since we saw her last, Grace had become more alert, more interactive, and impossibly, even more awesome. That night, Sierra and I volunteered to stay home with the baby badger so Gabe and Jen could go out and have a much-deserved night on the town with their friends. Baby badger bonding ensued.

Saturday morning came, and we greeted it with a Macho Man Randy Savage flying elbow to the face and a long run to it's gut. We ran through the rolling hills and whispering pines of Saratoga State Park and drank from it's natural springs. Other than Lake Tahoe, it's hard to imagine a more relaxing place to be.

We drove to Niscayuna for a Saturday afternoon barbecue - the first of three over the weekend - with Andrew and Courtney. Sierra rediscovered her love for hot dogs, I validated what I'd always known (that hot dogs rule), and we spent the day enjoying cold beverages with good friends.

Sunday arrived and brought with it an opportunity for me to reflect. I've long admired my brother, not just for his kindness, success and all around great guy-itude, but because he's doing IT. IT, man. He's living the dream, and it fills me with pride. He has a beautiful family in a beautiful home in a beautiful town surrounded by beautiful friends. And as I stood in the cool shade of his towering pines, green grass between my toes and a street lined with American flags, I did one of the things I do when I know a moment is perfect and all too fleeting: I took a deep breath, felt the warmth of my skin, the weight of my heart, and snapped a mental image to ensure I would never forget the feeling. We went on to spend all day and all night grilling, relaxing, laughing and doing our best to maximize our happiness within this one perfect moment outlying an often imperfect world.

Monday came and went entirely too fast, and before we knew it, Sierra and I were back home, appreciative of all we have: each other, great friends and family, and the freedom to enjoy all of it thanks to the fearless and courageous history of American soldiers fighting for everything that makes this country so damn awesome. So thank you, Grandpa Elmer, and every other veteran for making my American dream possible.

Opening Day 2011: Giants Vs. Dodgers Live Blog

2011-03-31T20:26:00.020-04:00

It's Opening Day 2011 and it might as well be Christmas. Baseball is my most favoritest thing in the world. So as a gift to you, and as a memento to myself, I will be blogging my every thought during tonight's game. I hate the Dodgers more than I love baseball... and that's a lot of emotion. Before we dive in, keep in mind, I had my first cocktail at 12:30 this afternoon. It's now 8:15 and I'm going strong. Let's do this (start at the bottom for proper chronology):

9:14 - Nice play by Miggy to end the inning. This is lame. No one cares. I'm doing this for myself. I quit.

9:13 - Yeah right, Barajas!

9:12 - Love Uribe's bat flip. That's a long out, meat!

9:08 - C'mon. Kershaw is LEGIT. I'll say it again: I really wish he weren't a Dodger 'cause I love this kid. Sooo filthy. 8 Ks through 4. Wow.

9:07 - Are Orel's tips frosted?

9:05 - Damn! Get some, Aubrey. Almost. I'm calling another big year for him. An OPS hog.

9:02 - Why am I not a broadcaster? I'm always 30 seconds ahead of everything these guys say.

8:59 - Burrel's a klutz. Ethier's an ASU frat prick. Hate that guy's extra pink lips.

8:56 - Maybe this is the year Lincecum finally wins his much deserved Gold Glove. Dude's an athlete. I respect how aggressive the Dodgers are being on the paths. But they're still human garbage.

8:54 - Time for The Freak to get some K's.

8:51 - Kershaw is basically amazing. I wish he weren't a Dodger. It'd be a lot more fun to cheer for him that way.

8:50 - I think the ESPN guys call a good game, but I can't wait to hear Kruk and Kuip do their thing. And of course, the Legendary Vin Scully is always a delight, even though he's a Dodger.

8:49 - Vodka-cran engaged.

8:46 - I always liked Uribe as a Giant, and his hustle play on that bloop single reminded me why. I liked Tejada staying with the slide even more and getting the tag out. This is gonna be a really low-scoring affair.

8:36 - This is way too stressful. It was a good idea, but rather concentrate on the game and drink more. Final thoughts: Giants repeat as World Champs, Kershaw has a huge year, and I win everything.

8:35 - Belt just singled on his first ever at bat. A hard hit laser beam that barely stayed in the park.

8:33 - Tejada's first at bat as a Gigante. Didn't like the signing, but maybe he'll find some of old steroid strength to make an impact. Brandon Belt is a future Hall of Famer. Fact!

8:30 - Tie game. White Russians are delicious. And sexy.

8:26 - In case you didn't know, I have a major crush on Tim Lincecum. It pains me to watch these bloop singles drop in.

8:21 - Clayton Kershaw is really good. Damn. I picked him to win the Cy Young more than a month ago. Right now he's on pace to strike out over 3,000 batters this season.

8:00 - ESPN's intro just gave me chills. Maybe it was this frigid drink. Either way, it's time to defend the belt!

Tourist Season Is A Wrap

2011-03-30T10:16:00.001-04:00

The last three weeks, we hosted a total of six house guests. That's six different whirlwind tours of the city, six different mouths to feed, six different livers to poison, six different asses farting into our couch cushions. It was awesome. And exhausting. And expensive. And great to spend time with some of our favorite people. And it also gave us an opportunity to play tour guide to our adopted apple orchard: New York City.

We've only been living here nine months, so to call ourselves New Yorkers would be a stretch. Sure, we've settled in, found our groove, made new friends, seen the scenes and experienced one of the hottest summers and coldest winters on record.

But I still didn't feel a part of this city.

I'm not sure how to describe it, but this place has a hard-to-get vibe to it. Not in a hard-to-get-whatever-you-want kinda way, 'cause you can get anything you want at anytime of day or night. But in a this-clique-is-really-cool-and-I-wanna-be-a-part-of-it kinda way. Like the city itself is "the in crowd", and you have to prove your worth before you can sew the gang's coiled snake patch on your letterman jacket, or whatever.

The past nine months we've been doing our own thing-- seeing cool shit, discovering our favorite off-the-map places, making our footprint-- and all the while not knowing we were being assimilated. We were becoming New Yorkers by not trying to become New Yorkers*. And our sly acceptance into the gang began to reveal itself more and more with each new visitor.

It wasn't long ago that I took a three-hour subway ride to Queens that should have taken 35 minutes. It wasn't long ago that I was complaining about shitty food being overpriced. It wasn't long ago that I felt anxiety in crowds, an inability to walk past beggars and an overwhelming sense that the grandeur of this town would eat me alive.

Yet, here I was, leading Chalmers and a small pack of tourists through the subway stations ensuring they all got on the right train that would guarantee they make their flights. Here I was walking past the neon-lit tourist trap restaurants and bars, and instead rapping my knuckles on the mahogany door of a clandestine locals-only speakeasy. Here I was getting between my guests and an over-aggressive panhandler. And there I was, covering every inch of this complex and complicated city-- with it's skyscrapers and statues and parks and chaos-- eagerly and proudly showing off my home.

This post was originally going to be a straight-forward list detailing every single minute of every single day. But I decided not only would that be lame (and impossible to recount), but it would glaze over the most important thing that happened to me while our friends and family were all here: I became a New Yorker.

So thank you to Bo Ro and Veronica, J Lowe and Keturah, Broseph, and our personal closer, Chalm Daddy, for making me feel a part of something much bigger, and cooler, than me.

And of course, I can't finish without including video evidence of Chalmers being panhandled. I just happened to be filming as a guy in a mullet hits The Machine up for some change, and the guy is lucky to have gotten out alive. This is why they call him The Machine. Good times.

*Core Mac philosophical phootnote: this adds fuel to my claim that self-transcendence is only possible through selfishness, but that's a different post. Discuss...

Hall Pass: Natalie Portman

2011-03-23T13:52:00.004-04:00

For Sierra's sake, I considered not writing this. But then I figured she probably feels the same way. In fact, Sierra probably has a better shot of pulling a Black Swan on Natalie than I do. So without further ado, my dance with destiny...

If ~~you're my friend~~ you've spent more than 30 seconds with me, you know I've been obsessed with Natalie Portman since we were both 12 year-olds. She was off starring in her first motion picture while I was spending 8 hours a day on the golf course. We were both going about honing our respective crafts, killing time until that fateful day when we would serendipitously meet on the streets of New York and fall wildly in love.

As her star began to rise-- starring in critically-acclaimed films, dating rock stars, graduating from Harvard-- mine began to lose it's shine... or at least barely maintain it's brilliance, but I certainly wasn't going all Hollywood on anybody. Our lives began to take different paths, but our souls have always been running parallel courses.

I waited patiently as we endured the travails of adolescence. I twiddled my thumbs as we both experienced life and all of it's successes and failures. I did an Oscar-worthy job of hiding my jealousy as she dated boys not named me. I even went so far as to date people other than her just to prove that I was in no hurry for that magical day when we would first meet and life would truly begin.

Upon learning in my late twenties that my good friend and Hegemaniac, Cappa, had gone to high school with her, I was sure our time was close. I began preparations for our first encounter. Nothing creepy, just a few thousand photos and wallpapers on my computer, a complete bio documenting her every move since the day she was born, and several dozen throw pillows with her face sewn on. Yes, our future was nigh.

Then I met Sierra and I began to forget about Natalie. Besides, Natalie was off winning Oscars and banging dudes more awkward than me. She even went off and got pregnant by the sorriest looking guy in film. So I moved on, all the while knowing I'd still someday be face-to-face with my one-time soul mate.

DISCLAIMER: Sierra is my perfect match and leaves nothing to be desired. I've never been happier in my life.

But you're a tricky little whore, aren't you, Irony? Just as my life is coming together as I always imagined, you go and throw me a screwball.

And so it was, just yesterday, that as I'm walking hand-in-hand with Sierra through Columbus Circle, fate goes and throws a donkey punch shiver right to my sac.

Twenty-something years of waiting for the moment I run into Natalie Portman-- rehearsing my lines, practicing my look of surprise at bumping into the person I've always planned on bumping into-- and it happens at a time when I've given up on it ever happening, or wanting it to happen. It happens as I'm holding hands with my real love, with her awesome family behind us, and with some alien baby in Natalie's stomach. I hate you, cruel Irony.

But alas, not one to let the moment totally escape me (I have been planning for it my entire life, afterall), I said what needed to be said.

I saw her coming a block away; nay, I sensed her more than saw her. She was standing in the driveway of a parking garage, saying goodbye to a crusty old curmudgeon. As I approached, we locked eyes, and that's when I said it.

Twenty years of plotting, rehearsing, envisioning and perfecting my line for this singular moment in the infiniteness of time. Twenty years of batting practice for one pitch. I looked at her and said...

"Yes".

Right at her face.

And then it was over. Natalie smiled, the old man chuckled, and I had closure. Sierra and I looked at each other and laughed and kept on walking into Central Park and on through the rest of our lives. Together.

Life threw me a screwball. But I hit it out of the park, and that home runs name is Sierra.

Sure, I could see the heartbreak in Natalie's eyes when she saw me holding hands with another woman, but as they say, it's better to have never known a creepy guy who obsessed over you than to have always known you loved him. Or something.

So farewell, my Natalie. This life is not for us. That is unless Sierra is open to a three-way hall pass...

Tourist Season Begins

2011-03-10T14:43:00.001-05:00

Button down the hatches, secure the women and poultry, and dust off your liver. It's tourist season at our humble little apartment, and starting Sunday, our futon will be getting laid on more than a mustache in Mexico. Three separate waves of guests will be staying with us over the course of three weeks, and it's gonna be awesome.

But first we're heading up to Kinderhook on Saturday for my yet-to-make-her-cameo-niece's inaugural rager. That's right-- a coed baby shower bonanza in K-Town, birthplace of my sister-in-lawesome. It's at the Elk's Lodge and is being bartended by a wily vet named Whiskers.

Advantage: me.

We should be arriving back in Manhattan on Sunday right around the time Bo-Ro and Ronnie disembark from their train ride down from Bean Town. We will rendevous in Midtown and let the montage of fun begin. Me giving Bo-Ro bunny ears in front of the Statue of Liberty. Sierra and Ronnie posing sassily with their hands on their hips in matching I Heart NY t-shirts. The four of us posing with hot dogs in front of the Brooklyn Bridge. Bo-Ro playfully shaking his fist at Wall Street. Me wearing skinny jeans in Williamsburg. Sierra, Ronnie and Bo-Ro running away from a flasher in Central Park. Me running toward him. The four of us getting mugged in Harlem, shoulders shrugged, the inside of our pockets hanging out, hands up, palms facing the sky like the guy on the Monopoly Chance cards, as if to say, "meh, what're ya gonna do?"

Yeah, it's gonna be awesome. Like a real life movie. And then we'll do it all over again two more times when we will be graced first by the presence of J-Lowe and Keturah, and last but not least, a visit from Chalm Machine to close out the month.

So if you're thinking of coming to New York during the six weeks of the year when the weather doesn't completely suck and make you miss California, you'd better act fast. The trees are blossoming, the tulips are rising and our calendar is filling up quickly.

I love Spring. And baseball. Go Giants.

Chase Hates Harlem

2011-02-26T11:25:00.001-05:00

This story is long overdue, considering the effect it's had on my life since moving here. When walking out the door of our building, we have two choices: go left toward Amsterdam Ave, and Columbia's campus, and the Hudson River, and Riverside Park and my favorite street meat guy (all good things). Or go right, in the general direction of Harlem and Morningside Park.

Morningside Park is a really nice park. I feel lucky to live less than 30 steps from it. It has a tree-lined walk with several bench-encircled balconies that jut out off the main walk offering sweeping panoramas of the Upper East Side, the East River and Central Park. There's a fountain that children and birds play in. There's a pond with a waterfall. There are basketball courts and baseball diamonds and large grass fields. There are playgrounds and beautiful bronze statues of bears and colonists, and it's a really nice park by any definition.

But Chase hates it. She won't go anywhere near it. Hard lefts out our door every time. No exceptions. The paw brakes go on hard if I try to go right. And when I give her leash a little tug of encouragement, her skull-and-crossbones collar slides up her little dog skull, forcing her ears forward and scrunching her face, and she looks at me like I'm the craziest fucking dude in the world for even considering that she might go right instead of left.

And I think I know why.

We live in a neighborhood aptly named Morningside Heights. We enjoy the relative safety, cleanliness and quiet of our neck of the woods. It's mostly college students and small businesses capitalizing on the wealth of said Ivy League student's parents. One gets the sense they're in a bit of a bubble here. Especially when you stroll along the aforementioned tree-lined walk of Morningside park. There, one hundred feet or so above the actual park down below, you can hear the sirens of tireless police vehicles and ambulances. There, you hear the cries of children and the occasional gunshot. There, one hundred feet above the park, in your safe bubble, you feel immune to the sirens and cries and gunshots.

There's a wall built from the same bedrock that this island floats upon. It's an impressive wall built by John Olmstead and its symbolism and metaphor is more than vaguely apparent. It's a stone wall, steep and jagged, covered with crawling ivies and graffiti. At its base, Harlem. Above it, Morningside Heights. It is a wall, both in a poetic sense and a literal sense, separating the poor and struggling residents of Harlem from the affluent and sheltered residents of Morningside Heights.

Our building posts weekly notices of naive Columbia students who have been mugged while sitting on a bench in the park after midnight. Notices about people who have been followed and robbed and beaten. Notices that don't come out and say it, but to anyone with a pulse, warn us to stay away from the park after dark. I doubt anyone is ever caught. It's a criminal's wet dream: simply climb the steps to a wealthy neighborhood, find a clueless student, take their iPhone, retreat down the steps into the darkness and anonymity of the Harlem night. Simple. Lesson: stay the fuck away from Morningside Park after dark, keep your iPhone.

But how does Chase know that?

I don't know. But I have written about the wonder of dogs in the past. Dogs are extremely perceptive and intuitive. Chase and I communicate everything without a word, and she knows more than I give her credit for. She lays by us when we're sad, she sticks her tongue out when we're happy, she chases her tail when we're being playful, and she stays the fuck away from Morningside Park. That's a good dog.

Happy Saturday, Hegeys. Baseball is upon us. 8===D~~

Enter Through My Pleasure Receptors

2011-02-21T10:47:00.003-05:00

That title oughta win best "that's what she said" opportunity of all time. You're welcome for that, but I was trying to let ya know in my oh-so-clever way that Exit Through the Gift Shop dominates. I'd been hearing the buzz, but it wasn't until White Squall told me to check it out that Sierra and I finally got around to streaming it last night. And a tip o' the hat to you, Mr. Squall, for your fine recommendation.

This won't be a piece on whether or not Exit is an immaculate joke on the viewer. If you're interested in reading about that, I encourage you to get your Google on. In fact, Google it anyway if you haven't seen it; this post will make a lot more sense. This piece is about the rare breed of film that makes me feel things, like creativity and a desire to express myself. So...

Is it a hoax? Depends on your definition. Is it performance art? Considering the last piece of "performance art" I saw was some asshole who had drilled himself through the middle of a piano and was playing it backwards, no, it's not performance art. Was it inspiring, creative, one-of-a-kind, thought-provoking and the impetus that led to midnight pillow talk about art? Hell yeah, brother. And I like that. A lot.

I don't care if Thierry Gueta is actually Banksy, or if Banksy is actually Thierry Guetta (he's not by the way. Did you see the meat hooks on Banksy? Not the hands of a tiny Frenchman). I don't care if the art world has been duped. I don't care if I am the exact person that "true artists" are referring to when they spew shit like this through their pretentious puckered anuses: "viewers congratulate themselves for being so postmodern, and so very smart. Plus, it feels vaguely subversive to rally around graffiti artists". I don't care about that. I care about looking at things I've never seen before, defining for myself what is and is not genius about it, and saying, hey, I wanna try.

Exit has me feeling really good today- about the film itself, about my craft, about my own potential- and that's invaluable. Those are the things that 99.9% of cinema falls flat on its face attempting to do. Art is pretty much by definition undefinable. It's how powerful the reaction it triggers that measures its importance. By those metrics, this is an important film, and it gets my highest rating of Double-Crossed Party Horns.

Good talk.

The Domestication of Peter Anderson, or Happy Valentine's Day. Part Two.

2011-02-19T12:01:00.000-05:00

A little over two years ago, I couldn't wait to move in with Sierra and begin our lives together. Back then, I hinted to you at how she had positively changed my life. Now, with the clarity of retrospect, I can earnestly and unabashedly tell you she is the best thing that's ever happened to me.

When we met, I was unhappy, selfish and generally feeling dominated by life. I told her so on our first date. I believe my exact words to her, as we sat in Winn Park under the shade of a towering pine tree, were "I'm not capable of dating anyone right now. I can't even make myself happy, there's no way for me to make someone else happy." She put her hand on my leg, told me she understood, and flashed her warm, sympathetic smile.

Before saying bye to her later that night, I knew everything had changed. I liked the way I looked through her eyes. I liked that she didn't try to verbally convince me that I was worthy of someone like her; she allowed me to figure it out myself.

How?

Easy. When a beautiful person tells you that you too are beautiful, you start to believe it. When a person whose laugh is the definition of happiness, and she's laughing with you, you start to feel happy. And when a person whom you respect for her strength, her courage, her intelligence, and her ability to still fall in love despite a life that has tried everything to take that ability away from her, you start to believe you can fall in love again too.

So I did. I decided to shed the exoskeleton that had been built over recent years; hardened by disappointment, stained by heartache, deformed by failure-feeding barnacles. I shattered that pseudo suit of armor and I revealed my insecurities. Then a funny thing happened: we fell in love really fast. And I was happy again because she was happy that I was happy that she was happy and we were happy.

And we still are.

Happy Valentine's Day to everyone, happy or not. The love of your life has been right in front of you this whole time, or rather, within you. And it just takes the right person to come along at the right time with the right sympathetic smile to show it to you.

His Girlfriend's A Pornstar

2011-02-17T10:02:00.002-05:00

Not long ago, I mentioned that the blogosphere got a little better when Pipes and Core-Mac stepped into the ring. Pipes has steadily been bringing the Daily Drivel with stories of his exploits in my former stomping grounds of Los Angeles, while Core-Mac has been keeping the philosophical stream of thought peacefully flowing along on his own blog. Welp, Core-Mac decided to get together with a buddy of his and came out with some serious hammerheads late last night. Corey's the pianist with the velvet voice. Queue the fireworks:

Don't know how he managed to keep a straight face, 'cause I was in tears. I'm envisioning a nationwide lounge tour. But be sure to take the plastic tree in the background with you everywhere; it packs a strong presence. Total domination.

Sticking It To The Man

2011-02-16T10:20:00.004-05:00

There are few things in life I cherish more than finding ways to circumnavigate the big-corporation booby traps that frequently obstruct the road of life. Sure, they may look innocuous enough, laying there covered by a few flimsy branches and leaves, but as soon as you step on it, BOOM! You're sent spiraling down a thorn-lined hole of contracts and upcharges and poor customer service. When you emerge two years later, if you're lucky enough to emerge at all, you feel beaten, penniless and deceived, and the monster conglomerate satellite or cable or cell phone company has spit you right back into the mouth of the next looming pitfall.

Without going into gory detail, when we moved to New York and were told by our building superintendent that satellite dishes were not permitted due to historical preservation, we were faced with a decision: pay an exorbitant early termination fee or downgrade our services to the most basic package and slowly bleed out the remaining months of our two-year contract with the devil. After tactful negotiations on my part, we've at least been able to put off paying any fees until we move to a building that allows dishes (quick side note: ALWAYS negotiate with the big company; they will "magically" find a way to keep you as a customer). So with that moved to the back burner, we were still faced with the challenge of finding a way to enjoy our favorite TV shows without the use of a dish or the nut-crunch of a new cable contract (which the building DOES allow).

We dabbled briefly with month-to-month Time Warner Cable, but the steep industry standard of $80 a month still left me feeling gut-punched. There's got to be a better way, we told ourselves while rubbing our chins and gazing thoughtfully out the window.

Enter Roku XDS. Exit my fist through the back of The Man's face.

Roku, along with an HDTV antenna and a laptop with an HDMI-out that streams ESPN3 in Hi-Def to our 42" rectangle of pleasure, has allowed us to officially stick it to The Man. For those unfamiliar, Roku is one of several set-top receivers allowing you to stream premium content straight to your TV. The box itself is affordable and requires no monthly subscription. And perhaps most importantly, it's catching on. This means near-daily improvements and an ever-growing collection of channels. I'd like to think that soon the idea of paying for television will seem as archaic as the concept of independently owned video rental stores.

The antenna gives us live programming from the four major networks, and ESPN3 gives me any live sporting event, including cricket. Oh, and did I mention one of Roku's channels is MLB.TV? Ummmm, hello every single Giants' game with the orange and black broadcast team of Kruk n' Kuip! Viva los Gigantes.

Next on our list: eliminate our $150/month cell phone hemorrhage. That won't happen until November, and even then, resisting the temptation of the iPhone 5's Siren call will be hard to do, especially since Verizon appears to be getting that one as well. Until that day, we will continue to fight the power.

Character Study #2: Rufus

2011-02-13T13:08:00.002-05:00

I promised you Po Flo guy as my next character study, but having spent last night in Williamsburg, the hipster capital of the world (yes, even more hip than Silver Lake), I gotta get this out of my system before I hang myself with my checkered scarf and original Nintendo controller belt buckle. Po Flo guy will be next, but for now: Rufus.

Rufus leans his fixed-gear bicycle with neon green handlebars up against the graffiti-covered brick wall. He removes the oversized chain from his political and pop art patch-covered messenger bag. After securely locking his fixie to a pipe, he pulls the small tub of American Spirit tobacco from his bag and proceeds to roll his own additive-free cigarette, pretending not to be hoping to be noticed. As he leans against the graffiti-covered wall, smoking, with one leg bent and his minimalist brown boot flat against it, he is disappointed that no one is around to watch this statement he is making. After all, the graffiti isn't graffiti. It's an abstract mural of a famous battle in the American-Indian War, and he has cleverly added just last week, in a spray paint fit of fierce irony: Land of the Free. He snuffs out his cigarette with his boot and enters his place of employment through the back door.

Once inside, Rufus gives the head nod of acknowledgement to his fellow bartender, Asher. Asher wears his dirty blond hair up in a hybrid ponytail/bun, with long loose strands hanging over his black horn-rimmed, transparent-lensed, yet prescription-free glasses. His t-shirt is tattered with holes yet proudly boasts that yes, Asher was at the Sonic Youth show in Krakow, Poland, 1987. And no, for your information, modern so-called indie bands do not embody the same ideals as the revolutionaries who blazed the trail for them.

They prepare the garnishes-- limes, olives, pimento cherries-- in anticipation of another busy Saturday night at Barcade, the oh-so clever themed watering hole featuring overpriced craft beers and retro arcade games. Watching Rufus and Asher prep the bar for a bustling evening is like watching poetry being written by a feather quill plucked from the wing of an angel and dipped in holy water. They are a symphony being conducted by a self-loathing, malcontent maestro, and they are insufferably satisfied with themselves. You just would never know it, because a friendly hello or smile would betray the self-imposed purpose of their lives: to resent everything, especially conformity.

But here's something that would really irk them if only they could see it: by midnight, every patron of the bar looks and feels the same way as they. Perhaps Asher should fill his prescription for near-sightedness.

It's now nearing last call, and approximately 30% of the customers who visited the bar in hopes of ordering a drink have actually received their Pabst Blue Ribbon, or craft beer, or well whiskey on the rocks. You see, two bartenders for a behemoth like Barcade is about eight bartenders short of what's truly needed. But alas, waiting 15 minutes for a can of beer is fuel for the fire of angst which slowly burns at the heart of all counter-culturists.

Once the last customer has left and the doors have been locked, Rufus and Asher share an Old Crow on the rocks and discuss their mutual disappointment at the popularity of the Garden State and Juno soundtracks.

Rufus rides his bike home alone while congratulating himself for being such a free thinker, such a unique person, such an aficionado of irony. And yet, Rufus is blind to the greatest irony of all: he is surrounded by thousands of Rufuses, and they would all probably get along swimmingly if they all didn't despise each other so.

You've Been Neglected

2011-02-11T21:59:00.000-05:00

I owe you an apology. While you were off reading about all these fantastic new blogs popping up all over the interdeals, I haven't been giving you your daily dose of domination. You're a loyal bunch, and I value your readership, so allow me to make it up to you. I've got some pretty exciting fodder in the pipeline that I can't wait to fill you in on, so go out, enjoy your weekend, and come check back in with me on Monday. C'mon, you know I'm the Monday doctor. Teaser alert-- take one of these and call me in the morning: there's a new character study underway, and I can't wait to share him with you. See ya Monday, my minions.

Oh, and if you wanna know what's been occupying my time lately, give this a peep and lemme know whatcha think...

Good talk.

Chalk Up Another One

2011-02-07T09:25:00.000-05:00

On Friday, I was eager to steer you in the direction of Piper's new brainchild, The Daily Drivel. It's off to a fast-paced and entertaining start, and I wish more of my friends kept blogs. Not for purely selfish reasons, but for their sake as well. Since I began my own blog way back in 2007, I've found that it serves as an excellent time capsule. Any time I'm feeling nostalgic, I can point-and-click my way down memory lane, and that seems like something a lot of my friends would value.

So imagine my delight when later that same fateful night, Core-Mack climbed aboard the Blog Express and gave birth to a very honest and very thoughtful self-examination he calls Portrait of a Life in Freefall.

Corey's a complex guy to say the least, and despite the fact that he's pretty much a dead-ringer for the dude below, his turbo-powered philosophical brain makes him an enigmatic paradox.

I encourage you guys to head over and check 'em both out -- they get my highest approval rating of Double Skyward Party Horns.

Who's the next blogger in need of an endorsement?

The Blogosphere Just Got Better

2011-02-04T18:15:00.000-05:00

Original Hegemaniac and former roommate, Pipes, has just thrown his hat in the ring. It's been a long time coming and I'm pumped to follow his musings. I mean, check out the double-crossed party horns and wooden keg hat: pure hegemony.

The Pipe Man and I go back, and he's always been the funniest dude I know. And I know some funny dudes. His blog is called The Daily Drivel and it can be found here. He's a real estate and loan consultant in Southern California if you need to make moves, and he promises to talk some business on his blog. But based on his flagship post, I'd expect more jokes than shop.

Good luck to ya, Piper. The most important thing to remember about blogging is to keep blogging; something I know very little about. Now go check him out.

The Daily Drivel

Something From My Childhood...

2011-02-01T13:00:00.000-05:00

The other day I told Sierra I'd love to have one of those page-a-day calendars where each new day would give me a subject to write on and share with my Hegeys. A quick Googling revealed no such calendar, but there are several websites that offer some blogging ideas. Sure, they're dull and uninspired ideas, but therein lies the creative process, amiright?

Anyhoo, I settled on "Something from childhood you wish you still had."

The above outfit, with those boots I would literally kill someone for, is definitely something I wish I still had. And that hair would be sweet, too. But here I am, probably 25 or so years after that picture was taken, and what I miss most is how self-contained I used to be.

From the time I woke up to the time I fell asleep listening to Earth Mother Lullabies (still do), I could entertain myself straight through the day with only a ball and a glove. If a friend came along and wanted to toss the pill, fine, but I didn't need 'em.

From a chalked line on the sidewalk, I wound up and threw gas in the direction of a small square outline on our garage door. Sometimes the ball came right back to me (a soft dribbler and a toss to first). Other times the ball would catch the wood trim of the square and ricochet hard to the left or right, forcing me to showcase my range at shortstop. Occasionally, I'd leave a pitch high in the zone, catching the upper trim and sending the ball sailing back well over my head (even Nolan Ryan gave up homers). I threw countless perfect games against our garage door without the help of teammates. I won something like 30 straight World Series titles without ever stepping into the batter's box. I can still hear myself commentating every pitch and every play. The crowd noise in my head was deafening after a particularly spry play at third base. Man, I was entertained.

Then, somewhere along the way, that stopped being enough. Maybe it was the skiing accident that shattered the clavicle in my throwing arm, or maybe it was just growing up. Nowadays to keep myself entertained I need constant stimulation. In order to write this, I had to put on music, workout in the living room with a pancake griddle, pour a monster iced coffee, check Facebook six times and I'm still feeling disengaged. What the hell happened? All these devices to focus my energy and I'm still not fully content? Soft, me. Real soft.

So there's that. I wish life was as simple as it was when I was a kid. I wish there weren't so many things weighing on so many different lobes in my dome so that I could just enjoy doing something I love, like write. I wish I still knew how to be my own best friend. And that's something from my childhood that I wish I still had.

What about you?

Why?

2011-01-26T11:45:00.000-05:00

Why am I running this marathon? Because I can. Because once I didn't think I could. I'm doing it because I'm running from something, and because I'm running toward another thing. I'm running it because there are people who can't. Because there are people who want to, who dream about it, who, if not for a cruel twist of fate, would do it. I'm running this marathon because sometimes this world has a way of making me feel old and tired and weak and disrepected. I'm running this marathon because I know I'm not any of those things. Because I'm young and strong and able and willing and I know I won't always be. I'm running this marathon because you respect it, and I want your respect. I'm running this marathon because I do my best thinking when I'm running alone through the world. I'm running this marathon because there are so many things I'll never be able to do. I'm running this marathon for me. And for you. And because cancer kills Andersons. I'm running this marathon because I'm scared of cancer and every one of its venomous tentacles. I'm running this marathon because cancer has no right poisoning so many of my family members, or your family members, or any one or anything, and someone has to stop it. I'm running this marathon to raise money for The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society. Because they hate cancer too, and they have a plan to stop it. Why am I running this marathon? Because Elmer and Patty and Nana asked me to.

Please help. Donate now.

More Snow!

2011-01-25T21:10:00.000-05:00

So even though the average temperature was like 15 the last few days, we didn't get any snow. But to my squealing delight, this morning we awoke to a pillow fight amongst the angels. What a grand day to stay indoors! And below is the view from our bedroom window. In fact, Hegeys, what you're looking at is the view from my desk in our bedroom office where all the compositional acrobatics occur on a daily basis. You can see why my prose are so inspired: that dead tree is my muse. Not.

But that dead tree isn't really dead. Or maybe it is. I don't know. It had leaves when we moved here and before Chase started peeing all over it. Point is: now you can picture your favorite blogger gazing out to his courtyard below, or at his across-the-street neighbor blowing life into his saxophone. You can envision me, fist under chin, lost in cerebral wrest, choosing just the right combination of words to deliver to you, my loyal clan of idiots, so that you may read them, digest them, and feel satiated and happy knowing how much I love you. You can also see where Chase poops. Right next to that silver Honda.

And then of course, what good is a day spent indoors without a long john party! Hi-OH! Check out the crotch seams on this pair!

Hope you all are getting through the chill of winter as happily as we are, except my friends and family on the West coast who are absorbing all that eternal spring sunshine. You can bite me. Good talk.

Busy Weekend

2011-01-17T14:15:00.000-05:00

Another weekend has flown by, and this particular one was filled with tons of hot action. On Friday night, we went to Cappa's holy ground: Madison Square Garden. My Sacramento Kings were in town and brought the worst road record in the NBA with them. Fortunately though, I was there in the top row and I brought my overflowing bag of heckles with me. The Kings pulled out to an early lead and never relinquished it, sending me home with a hoarse voice and sending 20,000 Knicks' fans home with pouty faces :(

Saturday afternoon was spent for the second week in a row at Lion's Head destroying 25 cent hot wings and one dollar beers. If you play your cards right, and I always do, you can walk out of the place four hours later feeling totally fulfilled and completely disgusted with yourself for less than $15. Later that night after recuperating from our poultry coma, we went to Sarah and Irene's "New Year, New Hope" party. We met some fun fockers, had some drank, and stole a snow globe.

I greeted Sunday morning with a kick to its nuts and a White Russian to my face. Way lead on to way, and pretty soon we were watching NFL playoffs, drinking barley wine and baking lasagna. Sunday funday, indeed. And oh yeah, I finally caved as the last holdout in the world, and am officially on The Book now. Restraint isn't my strongest attribute, so the fact that I held out so long is worthy of praise.

The one thing I haven't been able to squeeze in so far, is a run. I AM running a marathon in June after all, so it's time to start thinking about thinking about getting serious. There are also a ton of you who haven't donated yet, so what are you waiting for? Donate now! Thank you to all who have, and to those who haven't, you can continue to expect more shameless solicitation from me until you do the right thing and help me kick cancer in the junk.

Happy MLK Day! Let's all remember to appreciate our freedoms and each other. Good talk.

Rock N' Roll

2011-01-13T11:20:00.000-05:00

I mentioned at the end of my last post that I'll be running my third marathon in June. More specifically, I'll be running the San Diego Rock N' Roll Marathon on June 5th, 2011. Additionally, I'll be running it as a member of Team In Training-- the rock star organization that has raised millions and millions of dollars for the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society. My brother ran his first marathon (coincidentally, also the San Diego Rock N' Roll) as a Team In Training member and came away feeling amazing about not just finishing the race, but for the entirety of the experience he had. Sierra's sister, Janette, has also trained with them and she tells me it changed her life.

Needless to say, I'm pumped. Getting back in marathon shape whilst reminding cancer what a douchebag he is, really bubbles the mercury in my hege-ometer.

I need your help though, Hegeys! We need to raise a LOT of money for LLS so they can continue to stomp on the throat of cancer. There was an awesome show of generosity in my first day of fundraising alone, and I know you guys will keep it coming! I can think of over 400,000 reasons why you should donate RIGHT NOW, and about zero reasons why you shouldn't. Believe me, I know how tight money is for a lot of us, but think of how good you'll feel about yourself after even the smallest donation. I'll even throw a set of Hegemony Party Horns in your honor during the race for your help. \m/-.-\m/

Cancer has taken two of my grandparents prematurely, and even breathed its wretched halitosis breath in the direction of my Pops a couple times. Quite frankly, that really pisses me off. So I'm fighting back. WE are fighting back. Think about anyone you know who has had to suffer because of this disease, then tell yourself that that suffering could have and should have been prevented. The cure is on the horizon, yo, and we can get there-- 26.2 miles at a time.

Take literally just a few seconds to DONATE HERE or at the top right corner of this page. Thanks!

2010: A retrospective. Also, 2011: Prepare to Be Dominated

2011-01-09T11:20:00.000-05:00

January has always been about reflection and goal setting for me. So come along for a ride down memory lane as I recap the year that was and the year that will be.

The second decade of the second millennium began with a Hegemaniac invasion of epic proportions. We partied in Sac before heading up to Tahoe and building snow persons.

In February we headed to Hawaii for a reunion with Sierra's beautiful, loving and talented family. It was my first time there, and I had the time of my life snorkeling, swimming, off-roading, drinking Konakazis, boiling octopuses and bonding not just with Sierra's immediate family whom I've always loved, but also with her extended network of aunts, uncles, cousins and friends.

One of our many weekend road trips found us spending a picturesque day in Delores Park. It was one of those rare sunny San Francisco days that you never want to end. Chase destroyed grass, I catapulted footballs to Sauce and Matey with my laser rocket arm, and Sierra solar cooked pasta. Definitely the kind of day that makes me miss my west coast home.

In July, Sierra, Chase and I made the life-changing decision to move to New York City. We drove a 16' moving truck across the country, and had an amazing time in the process. My friends are the most important thing in the world to me, so it was hard to say goodbye, but our bonds are tight and distance doesn't matter; we'll all be together again soon (that felt gay).

Our first summer in New York was jam-packed with activity. We headed north to Saratoga Springs for horse-related activities with Gabe and Jen, partied with Mini Hulk and got my leg humped by a Dalmatian.

We took a trip to the beach on a hot and gorgeous August day, and sat in awe of the stereotypical guido-like characters covering every inch of the Long Island shore.
The move to a bustling and unforgiving city was especially hard on Chase. Every airplane and every crash of late summer thunder sent her into a shivering anxiety fit. Luckily, Dr. Pete saved the day and gave America's most dominant dog the courage to continue her path of domination.
The changing of the weather from summer to fall brought with it baseball playoffs. And what an October it was for my beloved San Francisco Giants! My preseason wager on them to win it all paid off in a major way, as they became the 2010 World Champions. The entire month was spent in an orange haze of belligerence.
And speaking of belligerence, my favorite holiday of the calendar year was rocked hard with the help of Hegemaniacs from all over the country. Too bad I don't remember much.

Thanksgiving was spent in our cozy new apartment with a couple close friends sitting around a table overflowing with savory bounties. Oh, and it also marked day one of The Fourth Annual Anderson Brothers Mustache Growing Contest; everyone's favorite time of year.

As the new year approached and December raced by, my mustache was apparently the only noteworthy thing going on in my life. Sierra and I gathered with family and friends in Saratoga Springs to reveal my prized 'stache and to ring in 2011 with Dick Clark.

2010 was without any doubt, one of the best years of my life. We made a ton of new friends, settled into our new home, and dominated everyday to the fullest. Sierra even managed to crush her first semester of Ivy League domination to the tune of a 3.43; clearly the brains of the operation.

Another monumental occurrence in 2010 was my 30th birthday. And a long time ago, one of the first conversations I ever had with sierra's brother-in-lawesome, J-Lowe, was about him telling me how his thirties were the best decade of his life. I could see in his eyes that he meant it, and it really stuck with me. So as the first full year of my thirties, and decade for that matter, is underway, it's time to let the good times roll.

And roll they will...

We're expecting to play host to a ton of our best friends and family in 2011. In May, The Machine will be making his New York premiere. March alone will bring us J-Lowe and Sis Pants, as well as Bo-Ro and Ronnie. And one other guest of honor will be making her New York debut: in late April, Gabe and Jen will be welcoming their first little Hegemaniac into the world. With me as the uncle, this little angel is gonna rule the world.

So what are my goals for 2011? Well, after an unforgettable and action-packed 2010, my 2011 goals are a bit more tempered. The only thing on the calendar so far is The San Diego Rock N' Roll Marathon in June, and I'm running it with Team in Training to raise a shit-ton of money for The Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. And guess what?- you're gonna help! That's right, in exchange for your daily dose of Hegemony, I insist that you donate to the cause RIGHT THIS SECOND. I doubt I have a single reader who hasn't been affected by cancer in one way or another, so do the right thing and drop some coin for the right reason. Besides, I know you're eager to hear about the bodily damage I inflict upon myself in the name of one more marathon.

So with that, happy New Year, Hegeys! Obviously, this'll be the best one yet!

ABMGC IV: The Showdown

2010-12-24T18:18:00.000-05:00

Well, here we are: Christmas Eve 2010. Bestached, belligerent and beautiful is the only way to go through life, and as I sit here simulblogging with my mustachioed nemesis, I'm reflecting on how grateful I am to have been able to spend one-twelfth of the past year living the three-pronged dream. So, without further ado, here's an entire month of socially ostracizing behavior captured through just a few clicks of the lens. I present to you: The ABMGC IV Showdown... featuring holiday sweaters.

At this point, many of you may be asking who won the Fourth Annual Anderson Brothers Mustache Growing Contest. My question to you is, who lost? Not me. Not Gabe. Not our ladies. Certainly not you. You see, that's the beauty of this winter spectacle. There are simply no losers, only huge, ginormous winners. In fact, we're leaving to pick our mother up from the airport in a few short minutes, and the look that will spill upon not only her face, but on the face of every holiday traveler as we gallivant through the congested Albany airport spackled with our indisputable cheer, will elucidate to me just how selfless our mustaches are. You see, mustaches are for the people. Sure, we're like a million times sexier with them, but I like to think that YOU feel just a little bit sexier knowing them. Merry Christmas. And a very mustachey New Year.

ABMGC IV: The Chestache

2010-12-23T12:48:00.000-05:00

Hey, so here's something I never thought I'd hear myself say: "I think my chestache could use some mascara". The picture simply does no justice for my latest Christmas miracle, but nevertheless, I present to you: The Chestache!!!

Christmas has indeed come early this year... for the ladies. If you need me for the next 48 hours, I'll be the guy cruising Manhattan in a super v, showin' off the goods.

Whatcha got, Broseph?

ABMGC IV: The Home Stretch

2010-12-20T19:04:00.000-05:00

It's December 20th, and what a month it's been. The Fourth Annual Anderson Brothers Mustache Growing Contest has been a whirlwind of excitement and sexual energy. And though the greatest show on lip may be coming to an explosive finale this Friday night, trumping the birth of Jesus himself, it doesn't mean we can't marvel in the glory that will forever be known as ABMGC IV. A recap...

The chilly October winds blew in more than just the changing of the seasons; colossal expectations rode aboard the harvest-time tempests as well.
A timely video from a few mustache groupies upped the stakes and lured in new competitors.
ABMGC IV got off to a fast start, fueled by turkey, gravy, copious amounts of Thanksgiving libations, and a farewell to a friendship eight years in the making.
Week One found my mustache and I taking Chase for a stroll around the neighborhood, as well as Pipes throwing his 'stache in the ring.
By Week Two things were getting hairy, and my alter-ego began to emerge.
Every year, competitors enter the hallowed grounds convinced they have what it takes to cross the Sahairy Desert. Yet at the end of the race, Gabe and I are the only ones to cross the finish line with our 'stache intact. This year was no different.
Gabe brought Santa into the mix, and used The Force to intimidate me.
Most recently, we celebrated Mustache Independence Day: a day marked by the emancipation of one of life's most under-appreciated and singularly glorious manifestations of the human spirit.

And we're just getting started.

Today I experienced a Miracle on 96th Street. Walking to get my hair cut this morning (to give Monsieur Mustache an unobstructed spotlight), the clouds parted, the sun smiled and the angels sang. There, between a gyro cart vendor and a drugstore, beckoning to me like a beacon in the night, was my soon-to-be Mustache Eve Showdown Uniform gently blowing in the breeze. It was the kind of moment that could inspire the birth of the word serendipity, as no other word can effectively capture how timely it was that the kinky threesome of luck, coincidence and happenstance chose to come together precisely at this filthy, mustachioed-crossroads bordello of my life and bang out a love-child for me to wear on Christmas Eve as a manger for the Lamb of God growing on my lip. Yet there it was, being hawked and peddled to me by an enormous Jamaican. I can't wait to show you.

What a journey it's been; quite a ride, indeed. So rather than tease you with yet another photographic update, whatdya say we set a date? A date to rendevous on Christmas morning- under the tree, surrounded by loved ones, intoxicated by pine straw and strong nog- and we'll compare gifts. Mine, of course, will be better than yours because it's an extravagant mother-effing mustache with an outfit to match, and you will.... well, you will want what I have. Merry Christmas.

ABMGC IV: Mustache Independence Day

2010-12-18T12:46:00.000-05:00

Today is December 18th, and as ABMGC Rule #5 clearly dictates, "contestant(s) must eradicate all other signs of facial stragglers other than mustache, leaving your septum's snuggle buddy as the lone centerpiece on the canvas of your face. This is non-negotiable." And so, with no other follicular colonies remaining on the continent of my face, I declare today: Mustache Independence Day!

To document this historic day, I have treated my readers to a before and after glamor shoot. As depicted below, my morale and party barometer were at a critically low point just moments before shaving my soul patch. The soul patch may be one of life's most cantankerous misnomers; I appear to have no soul at all.

Then, as if through divine intervention, the simple act of shaving everything except my mighty 'stache transformed me into the #1 most soulful party machine in the world. Look how unstoppably awesome I have become. Is there any way to stop this party? I think not.

What say you, my fellow 'stachers? Do you have an answer for this furry miracle?

Hipsters. R.I.P.?

2010-12-17T17:32:00.000-05:00

Sierra emailed me this New York article today so that I had something to read while taking the subway back from Trader Joe's. She knows, as do many of you, that I am fascinated by hipsters.

The first time I remember encountering hipster culture was in 2003. The first house I rented out of college was in Los Angeles, and my three roommates were people I described at the time as "dark and artistic". They wore ugly vintage clothing and oversize sunglasses. They decorated their rooms and the house with thrift store furnishings and listened to unusual music on vinyl records despite owning Apple laptops with extensive collections of MP3's. All of their friends were the same; tattered old clothing, messy hair, moods of general discontent. I was puzzled by my new roommates, especially after learning that they all came from wealthy families and had all attended the same ultra-exclusive music academy before going to UCLA. I remember picking up a stack of VICE magazines and not being able to put them down until I read each one cover to cover, only to be more confused than when I started. It seemed to me that there was this entire subculture of people my age who were interested in things that I had never heard of. I was blown away. How could I have been so unaware of such a large population of people.

Looking back, I know now that I lived with hipsters.

Which brings me back to the article. Read it if you have the time. It traces the history of everything hipster, and it's not only educational, but it's legitimately intriguing. The original hipsters of the 1940's were interested in art, politics and race issues, while today's hipsters seem to stand for the mere idea of standing for something. I still get a kick out of the irreverent shit I see hipsters bringing to the table, but it all seems somehow empty compared to the origins of the original hipster movement. And if you don't take the time to read it, here's a great clip:

One could say, exaggerating only slightly, that the hipster moment did not produce artists, but tattoo artists, who gained an entire generation’s arms, sternums, napes, ankles, and lower backs as their canvas. It did not produce photographers, but snapshot and party photographers: Last Night’s Party, Terry Richardson, the Cobra Snake. It did not produce painters, but graphic designers. It did not yield a great literature, but it made good use of fonts.

And the latest hipster craze, which admittedly I could get into: taxidermy.

ABMGC IV: Challenger Updates

2010-12-14T11:46:00.000-05:00

Mustache mania is sweeping the nation, and the hegemaniacs have been eagerly sending in their caterpillar glamor shots. And who can blame them? The opportunity to have a picture of themselves with a prized sub-nasal eyebrow on their face plastered throughout the interwebs for all to envy is the Siren's call; irresistible to sailors of the 'stachey sea. Today's contestants are Pipes and Matey.

Pipes would like his name mentioned in the Rookie of the Year category, claiming his bristles haven't wandered this far from his face in 30 years. Congratulations, but if he does win Rookie of the Year, it would be on a technicality, as he entered last year's contest before eliminating himself in favor of a family Christmas party. Amateur, yes. Rookie, no. I would, however, say he's definitely a front runner for Creep of the Year. Lurk on, brother.

Which brings us to Matey. Seen below mid quick-lip-quiver, or QLQ, Matey has no problem growing lush and fertile fields of man-lettuce; with him, it's always been a matter of harnessing its power. He's gained the reputation of eradicating his promising young lip populous shortly after introducing them to the world. You might say he suffers from premature eradication (QLQ). If you ask me, it's a damned shame he doesn't have the balls to grow a proper 'stache for the duration of the contest. Maybe someday. Until that day, a teaser of what could be...

2010 NYC Santacon. Or, Santarchy

2010-12-11T14:22:00.000-05:00

Chase, my mustache and I were out walking through the park this morning when I got the following text message from White Squall: "Bro, NYC is nuts right now. Apparently, it's the 'dress up like Santa and get shit-faced bar crawl' today." Not one to miss a good costume party, I went straight home and put "drunk santa party nyc" into the Google. White Squall's suspicions were confirmed. December 11th is indeed Santacon, an informal day of bearded mayhem and yule debauchery going on simultaneously in 170+ cities in 24 countries. Why am I wasting time telling you about this? I've got some inSantaty to participate in (who AM I?).

I love Christmas.

ABMGC IV: Week Two Update

2010-12-10T11:35:00.001-05:00

So Gabe went and got himself a therapy session with Yoda, did he? Sounds like someone is experiencing follicular dysfunction. Don't worry Bro, it happens to lots of guys... just not me. In fact, my mustache is SO potent, it has inspired the fertile field atop my melon to sprout lettuce with newfound vigor. I woke up this morning with a head full of luxurious and elegant locks that summons the great mustache gods of the 70's. Let's be realistic: combined, there's no stopping this tandem of pleasure. And oh yeah, that mustache comb switchblade you got me last summer, Gabe... let's just say it's being used to manicure your worst nightmare. FACE!

ABMGC IV: One Killer Mustache

2010-12-07T17:54:00.000-05:00

Does this guy know how to party, or what?

ABMGC IV: Day 11 Updates

2010-12-06T13:44:00.000-05:00

It's Mustache Monday and there's a lot going on, so let's get right to it.

My mustache is looking awesome. Maybe it's because I'm one year older, or maybe it's the sketchy mustache tonic I ordered from some creep on Craigslist, but this years 'stache is full and voluptuous. Three days til the next update photo...

First year ABMGC competitor, Hutch, sent in his Week One update with what seems to be either a cry for help or a full-on mustache suicide note. He writes, "the public humiliation aspect is already starting to weigh on me." I warned him about this. He continues, "then I'm going to Hong Kong with my Dad...and I really don't want to be walking around with just a 'stache and no supporting cheek or chin hair. Oh man this is getting tough already." Hang in there, damn it! It would be a tragedy of mustachioed proportions to rid yourself of a future cookie duster of such rich pedigree:

Also, the winter's first snowfall is clinging to my office window, pleading to be let inside where it can nestle its delicate flakes amongst the coarse vestibules of my bristly labyrinth. So cold outside, in fact, I just ordered a six-pack of these.

And finally, we have received the long-awaited and much overdue opening statement from fellow ABMGC founder, Brosef Stalin. He of course can be forgiven for behaving a bit distractedly this year. You see, he and my sister-in-lawesome have gifted me with a beautiful soon-to-be niece! And I don't need to tell you that someday she too will be a fierce competitor in this most exclusive contest. Congratulations to you, Jen and Gabe! Spike that baby bottle with 'stache tonic if you know what's good for her.

How is YOUR 'stache coming along?

Dogs.

2010-12-03T20:23:00.001-05:00

I love dogs. I always have. And if you don't love dogs, then you can get the hell out and never come back, 'cause god damnit, dogs rule.

I just found one of the most remarkable videos the Internet has ever given me. I mean it. I felt very moved watching this and am compelled to share it with you. During its 7:30 minute duration, I experienced every emotion I recognize as happiness-- joy, inspiration, pride, wonder, empathy-- and am still wearing goose flesh. This video is a marvel. Truly astonishing. I want to shake the paw of whoever made this.

Dogs are colossally awesome. They are loyal, brave and adventurous. They are fearless, funny and fun-loving. They are athletic, strong, sensitive and overwhelmingly fascinating. I know they are smarter than we think. I know they each see the world through a personal and wholly unique lens. I know they each have a complex set of emotions. I know a good dog would do anything for its master. And I know I couldn't be happy without one. I know these things because I've been lucky enough to have one by my side through nearly my entire life, including the one sleeping under my feet as I type this. And if you don't believe me, watch this video. Go dogs!

ABMGC IV: Week One Update

2010-12-03T12:29:00.000-05:00

I took my frost-tickled neonatal mustache for a walk this morning. We brought Chase along so she could get some off-leash action and chew on her leftover Thanksgiving pig foot (my life is very strange).

Anyhoo, things are progressing nicely in the mustachular region of my ghostly pale face. As you can see, my first manicuring effort has left me with a goatee accoutrement that is home to several silver whiskers-- a sure sign of follicular wisdom. I'm satisfied with both the amount of growth and the pattern, and feeling confident that this years 'tache will be sexier than ever.

And although many of you have verbally committed to competing in ABMGC IV, I've received an alarmingly small amount of update photos, including my perennial nemesis. It's time to step your game up, Knights of the Muzz Table. To hopefully spark your initiative, here's Pipes definitely NOT looking creepy after his CFS (Ceremonial First Shave).

And remember, if you want to be in contention for the Chalice of Champions, you must send me photo updates of all phases of growth, starting with your CFS.

Have a stachey weekend...

ABMGC IV: Ready, Set, Grow!

2010-11-30T13:56:00.001-05:00

It's officially everyone's favorite time of year: ABMGC is upon us. It's that magical month right in the middle of the holiday season when boys become men, and men become mustachioed sex objects. And this year's ABMGC promises to be bigger and better than ever, with participants from all over the country eager to let their facial soldiers stand guard on the Upper Lip Fortress of Eternal Harmony. I know I am.

After last year's stunning Christmas Eve showdown, ABMGC IV has a lot to live up to. But with a large field of follicularly formidable foes, this should be one for the ages.

Now then, before jumping into photographic evidence of 'stache day shaving ceremonies (held Thanksgiving Day for most), I'd like to mention a few ground rules for those who may not be familiar with this behemoth testosterone party. While all are welcome to compete, only those who adhere to the rules will be eligible for the Chalice of Champions.

Contestant must shave his ENTIRE face before embarking on his journey toward hirsute immortality. Photographic evidence required.
Contestant must provide update photos once per week for duration of contest, as to avoid mustache conspiracy.
For the first 14 days from initial shaving, contestant may cultivate other facial hair in addition to lip sweater, with the understanding that all surrounding facial hair will be insanely jealous.
After initial 14-day growth period, contestant must shave all extraneous facial hair, but may retain ONE complementary item of facial hair. This includes, but is not limited to: one sideburn, one soul patch, one goatee, one adjoining eyebrow, etc. However, any complementary facial item MAY NOT come in contact with showcase item, i.e. Muzzy McStacheypants must stand alone on the strength of his own follicles.
For the week leading up to final 'stache showdown (for ABMGC IV = Dec. 18-24), contestant must eradicate all other signs of facial stragglers other than mustache, leaving your septum's snuggle buddy as the lone centerpiece on the canvas of your face. This is non-negotiable.
Winner is determined on Christmas Eve by evaluating the follicular fortitude, the presentation, the manicuring, and the costuming of final entry mustache. Do not ask who the judge is, I will kill you.

Good luck to all who enter. These rules are subject to change, and most likely will be changed, so check back in for updates.

And now without further ado, ceremonial shaving action photos:

A special subplot to this year's ABMGC is that the lady lovers of mustachioed men will be forgoing their usual practice of leg-shaving and holding their own hair-raising contest, culminating in mustaches shaved into their calves. Yay?

Chase, always supportive of her old man, curls into a ball and demonstrates her loyalty by creating a tail 'stache. Good dog.

And finally, the early favorite for the coveted "Guy Who Sacrificed The Most To Compete In This Awesome Contest" award goes to first year contestant Hutch, who assassinated his goatee of eight years to be allowed access into this hairy pantheon we call ABMGC. Rest in peace, Goatster.

He interrupted the massacre just long enough to flaunt what he hopes will be, in just a few short weeks, a prize caterpillar. If this taunt proves to be prophetic in any way, the competition is extra 'stachey this year.

The painting on the wall behind him, with the inscription "Don't Give Up The Ship", offers little consolation to the 'stache-grower lost at sea, crusty with scurvy, and too fatigued to go on.

Good luck to all. There are rough waters ahead, my fellow pirates of this most bristly sea, but the rewards... the rewards they be bountiful! AAARRR!

Happy growing...

So New York

2010-11-22T15:16:00.000-05:00

Brosef Stalin came to stay with us this weekend as kind of a Thanksgiving replacement kick-it session. He and Jen will be in Massachusetts for Bird Day, while Sierra and I will be throwing down our own feast here in Manhattan with Santana and Kris.

Gabe was only here for one night, so we made it count.

We all headed to the impossibly hip Bowery Hotel, where a friend-of-a-friend was hosting an Absolut Vodka-sponsored party. This friend-of-a-friend owns and lives in the top floor suite of the Bowery, and it was gloriously hegemonious. With near 360 degree views of lower Manhattan and it's bridges, skyscrapers and twinkling sea of lights, we were on top of the world. And the twinkling sea of complimentary vodka, whiskey and tequila were obviously a delicious sight as well.

Above are the bros, enjoying limited edition vodka and impregnating the camera with their bedroom stare. Below are the bro's lady friends, also imbibing on rare vodka delicacies, and doing a bit of camera sexing-up of their own.

It was a very New York night, and it was fun to show Gabe how Sierra and I get down on basically a nightly basis. Minus the chauffeur and dancing cats in top hats.

ABMGC IV: Some Motivation

2010-11-18T16:27:00.000-05:00

For those of you sitting on the fence, considering whether or not to throw your 'stache in the ring this year, here's a video that will change your mind. Especially since I've drafted a petition to move the official date of "Have Sex With A Guy With A Mustache Day" to December 18th i.e. the heart of ABMGC.

Disclaimer: This video incorrectly presupposes that every single day isn't "Have Sex With A Guy With A Mustache Day." As if. Amiright?

ABMGC IV: It's Almost Time

2010-11-17T17:07:00.000-05:00

You can feel it in the air. It's the cool, crisp breeze wisping over the barren desert of your upper lip, sending chills downward through the exposed and naked follicles which will soon give blossom to your hirsute commando, like a beautiful and rugged Sonoran flower. The days are short, quickly acquiescing to darkness: the incubator in which mustaches nourish themselves, strengthened by the moon and the devilish nocturnal libations which seem to flow so freely this time of year.

Yes, this is mustache season.

And as families across the country travel to be with one another for bountiful feasts and recounts of the year past, you stare into the mirror. You inspect with great detail the microscopic black dots on your upper lip, resembling a fine peppered meat, and you begin to visualize what this year's growth pattern will give birth to. There is laughter coming from the other room as the turkey is pulled from the oven, but the man in the mirror across from you is stone-faced, steely-eyed and not to be bothered with trivialities such as family and fowl. For you shaved this morning; one last ceremonial voyage aboard the S.S. Bic before the crushing waves and ripping tides of the unpredictable Northern Lip drown all previous signs of skin.

It's Thanksgiving morning, and for the next month you will be engaged in a battle older than time. You will hand the controls over to your testosterone and give the orders "grow, god damn-it!" You will wake each morning for the next 30 days to find a new lover sharing the pillow with you. You will endure the scornful and judgmental glares of parents with children between the ages of four and twelve. You will be the recipient of countless high-fives from men in their twenties, irony being their raison d'etre. You will experience paranoia, shame, hubris-like confidence and euphoric glee in the same day. You will look amazing in aviators.

Yes, The Anderson Brother's Mustache Growing Contest is nigh. Who's growing?

Halloween Reunion Show. The After Party.

2010-11-03T15:04:00.001-04:00

The Hegemaniacs and I decided to get the band back together for one last sold-out show on all hallow's eve. Matey came in from Cali, Bill from Chicago, the rest went unaccounted for. And while Sierra was off rallying to restore sanity in the nation's capital, we were giving the fans exactly what they wanted: total domination. I give you..... the band:

Hope you had a good Halloween. It'll never be rocked harder.

Happy Halloweenie

2010-10-30T09:23:00.001-04:00

I love Halloween. A lot. And on an unrelated (or more relevant than anything including your current breath) note, here's a sweet shot of GNF'NR. I'll be playing the role of (or living the life of...) the guy in the middle for the next day or two (starting yesterday).

Question: What kind of a dude tats a pic of his ex-girlfriend on one arm and a baby dolphin on the other (hypothetical; there's no real answer. No one's ever dominated that much)?

Makeshift answer: "I used to love her but I had to kill her". Nice, Axl. Nice.

Microphone scarves are bad-ass.

Oh S#!%

2010-10-24T14:21:00.000-04:00

Seven down, four to go...

Orange October

2010-10-21T12:06:00.001-04:00

I've waited until now to talk about this because I've been stung in the past by my team blowing it. But I can't wait any longer. Like a ball off the bat of Buster Posey, I'm bursting at the seams.

Back in March, equally orange-obsessed hegemaniac, J-Lowe, called me from a sportsbook in Reno. The Giants were off to a good start in spring training and I live dangerously, so I had him throw 10 big ones on the Giants to win the World Series. That's one-zero, folks. Ten dollars. Making it rain. The ticket's been decorating the fridge ever since:

And now the Giants are one game away from upsetting the Phillies and staying in the Bay for what is sure to be a World Series sweep of whichever American League fraud they play. And they have ballyhooed Hegemony man-crush, The Freak, on the mound. Lights out, Philly.

But let's rewind to a time even before I made my prophetic wager. Let's take it back to Summer 1980: the birth of an orange baby...

My earliest memories have me sitting on my dad's lap; he in his favorite recliner, me with an orange juice-filled bottle, and the fuzzy, bunny-eared television playing Giants games. As a little Giant, I posed for countless photos with my miniature mitt and baby bat sitting at old Candlestick Park, cheering on the legends of my childhood: Will Clark, Robby Thompson, Kevin Mitchell, Chili Davis, Candy Maldonado. I watched as the 1989 earthquake exposed all the faults of that team. I screamed in frat boy frustration as they let the 2002 World Series slip away to a rally monkey. I was in the stadium the night Barry broke the all-time home run record. And I've been there for the seven years since when there hasn't been much to cheer about. Until now.

We've built a team of talented youth and capable, battle-tested veterans. Our pitching staff is very young and very, very good. They'll be around for years to come, ensuring we'll be back in this position frequently throughout my adulthood. Buster Posey is a man-child, and he'll be anchoring the offense for the duration of his career. Yeah, there's a lot to be excited about in McCovey Cove these days, but it took 30 years to get here. Hummm, baby.

Oh, and once my winning ticket pays off, I'm flying every hegemaniac to San Francisco for a weekend in an orange haze. A hundred bucks oughta cover that, right?

Halloween Plans Have Been Laid

2010-10-02T11:57:00.000-04:00

Halloween is one of my favorite days of the year. When I was a kid, my brother and I would turn our house into a walk-through haunted house for everyone in the neighborhood. My mom would pass out hot chocolate at the end of the tour to the often pee-stained children. I no longer focus on scaring children, but rather try to embody the spirit of the most respectable people in the world; recent costumes include the creep from Snuggie commercials, a jazzercise instructor, and the dick-in-a-box pop singer.

This year will be no different, and I'll have backup. Out of state Hegemaniacs Bill and Matey are flying in to join forces with the fine collection of idiots already here, and the idiocy will have you seeing double. Or triple. Or quadruple. Or whatever seeing like eight of the same thing is. That's right: we're all dressing up as The Dude.

And this has yet to be confirmed, but if I had things my way, we'd be drinking white russians while rocking out to the music of the greatest band ever-- cover style.

"How do they look? Like (GnR) 20 years ago. How do they sound? Tighter than a 13-year-old groupie. The vibe? Hormonal - not a dry panty in the house... If it ever was a joke, to the crowd or them, both of you forget by the second song." - Armond White, New York Press, 2005

Game on.

Chase Is On Drugs

2010-09-25T17:29:00.000-04:00

Those of you who have been following the cross-country journey of Team Anderscottonchase know that for the most part, our transition has been relatively smooth. Chase had a rough trip, granted, but who likes fireworks in Omaha anyway?

Unfortunately, she's never really settled in since we got here; airplane noise inciting panic, thunder sending waves of terror through her little dog muscles, and going to the park (the "P" word used to perk her ears up) is more of a burden than a delight.

Well, all of that changed on Thursday.

Your favorite lady dog had a date with Dr. Pete, and the prognosis was daffodils and butterflies. To be clear, Dr. Pete is not me and his medicine is not a stern "knock it off, pooch". No, Dr. Pete is a real doctor of veterinarian practices. And he gave Chase the good stuff.

She's on Valium, and life is good again. As documented by the above shot, our little lamb is back to her old self, and it's a liberating feeling for me. The guilt I had about bringing her out here-- to a place she hated and couldn't be comfortable-- was nearly insufferable. She's too old to adjust to such an aggressive environment, I told myself. After all, I adopted her from a small collection of cages in the Sonoran desert; she's no city dog. Welp, the pooch is back...

Of course, I have no intention of feeding her pills every day and turning her into a snouted zombie, but the occasional pill will go a long way toward her rehabilitation. She willingly went to the "P" this morning with me, Sierra and Aunt 'Tana for the first time in forever, so things are already lookin' up.

The final leg of her rehabilitation will be when Uncle Cappa finally whisperizes her. He's been studying footage of the Messiah for a while now, so I assume he's legit.

To Chase!!!

A Serendipitous Storm

2010-09-22T23:07:00.000-04:00

As if scripted for the silver screen, a chance thunderstorm has just grounded Dustin's flight from the bay area to Vermont while switching planes at JFK, forcing him to stay the night in NYC... with me. It's a bromantic comedy for the ages. It's serendipity. It's... The Grounding of Flight Awesome: Part Bro. In theaters now.

Scene 1:

One month prior. Peter in the bathtub, candles lit, on the phone...

Peter: I don't understand why you can't just change your travel plans so that you can spend a night or two in the city with me before leaving for your work conference in Vermont...

Dustin: I know. I wish I could. Please understand. There's just no way to make it work logistically. I'm sorry. I don't know when I'll see you again.

Peter: Sigh...

Scene 2:

Flash forward to tonight. Peter on the couch with Sierra and Santana watching Cougar Town. Just another girl's night. Phone rings...

Peter: Hello?

Dustin: I've been sitting on this plane on the tarmac for three hours waiting for this storm to pass. They're saying it might get cancelled.

Peter: (Squealing, then composing his cool) So... you're saying you might have to spend the night in the city? With me?

Dustin: Yeah.

Peter: I'll alert the strip clubs, crack whores, underground mafia dens, and White Castle. See ya soon.

The End

Yipes.

2010-09-21T15:34:00.000-04:00

I was sitting at my desk having the standard morning cup o' joe when I heard three loud crashes on the street outside. Following the third crash, a man began to scream a horrible scream. I swiveled in my chair and turned to Sierra whose contorted and pained face must have been mirroring mine. The screaming got louder and began twisting our stomachs into knots. They had just put up scaffolding on the building next door-- had a worker fallen from the roof and crashed down on top of the corrugated metal? Was a pedestrian crushed under heavy construction machinery? A jay-walking student been made roadkill? People began to run past our window in the direction of the mans screams.

We saddled up the hound and went downstairs to investigate. The first thing we noticed after stepping outside was a large produce truck with a spiderwebbed front windshield-- something my years as a medic taught me is almost always a serious head or spinal injury, and almost as often, a fatality. Then we saw the FedEx truck on the opposing sidewalk. It had driven straight into the wall of the building across the street from ours. The front end was completely smashed in, and the truck had taken out a fire hydrant in the process. The steering column was now right where the drivers torso would have been. Yipes. The hospital is only a few blocks away and help came fast. Hopefully the occupants were saved.

The real story though, is how all the excitement made my bowels a little testy. So Chase and I saw Sierra off to class and returned upstairs. I went straight for my throne, flushed, and now everything was brown. The toilet water, the sink water, everything. Had I done epic damage? Unfortunately, no. It seems the entire neighborhoods water supply is now out of commission because of the fire hydrant that got smoke-checked. So here I sit, forced to drink beer instead of water. And that's my update.

Leg Guns

2010-09-20T16:50:00.000-04:00

A little over a week ago, I mentioned the perfect storm: Giants fighting for the post season, start of the NFL, and happy hour with Juice and Cappa. Now I present you with evidence. Not unlike grainy videos shot from within the eye of a tornado, the following 40-something seconds contain unpredictability, struggle, violence, intimate moments of human mortality, flying barns, and spinning airborne cattle. I present to you... Leg Guns!

Hey, Creep!

2010-09-17T13:53:00.000-04:00

Yeah, YOU! I see you lurking. Fancy yourself a voyeur, eh? Well quit bein' such a creep and introduce yourself already. You're amongst your own kind here. See that little box up in the top right corner? You know, the one above my shameless Google Ad space? That's the place for you to pledge your allegiance to me. And according to my Google analytics, there are about 50 of you freak shows checking in on me every day. Told ya you were amongst your own kind, I even know where you live. So go ahead and introduce yourself, stay a while, gimme a shout-out, be a follower, join the Hegemaniacs. It's good for my self-diagnosed megalomania, and it's good for your skin too. If I get 10 followers by next week, purple Nikes on me!

My First New York Rant

2010-09-16T10:36:00.000-04:00

But before I blow steam, where're my Seinfeld fans at? I know BoRo just blew his cyber load all over his mini collectible puffy shirt seeing this picture and knowing it's right down the street from me. For the rest of you non-creeps, this is Tom's restaurant, famous for being the home for thousands of conversations about nothing. Well, the exterior anyway. But in reality, it's just another over-priced place to eat shitty food in Manhattan. The rant starts now...

New York is world famous for a lot of things, food being one of them. There are a million great restaurants offering amazing food served up by famous chefs. There are even carts and roach coaches on every corner that serve surprisingly tasty food. And I love it, that's phenomenal. But this rant is about the meals for which I don't feel like dropping $20 on a cheeseburger or $4 on a greasy-ass gyro. I'm pissed about the middle ground.

There's middle ground lining every street in Manhattan: pizza by the slice joints, delis, cafes, diners, Indian, Greek, Ethiopian and everything in between. They all suck. And please don't get me started on the $10 burrito-o-shit I had a few days ago. If you pay between $5-$15 for food in New York City, it's gonna be awful. And they all get away with it. How is it possible that so many places overcharge for actual shit? In Sacramento, a $12 entree was off-the-charts good. In New York, $12 gets you a plate of dry chicken, flavorless vegetables and runny mac n' cheese. I'm livid.

Sierra and I made a pact last night, after spending $20 between us on a meal of trash, that we're never eating middle ground again. It's a total racket and I refuse to support it. So here's to a strict diet of home-cooked meals, $4 greasy gyros, $20 cheeseburgers, and nothing in between.

Now get that novelty puffy shirt in the wash before it stiffens, Rob.

My Kind Of School

2010-09-15T14:07:00.000-04:00

Columbia University: Selfish in bed since 1754

I've Got A Bar

2010-09-10T14:58:00.001-04:00

Go ahead and cross another crucial item off my Man List, 'cause daddy's got a bar. Sierra and I first went to Haakon's Hall on one of our first nights in town to watch a Giants-Dodgers game, and it's proven to have been a fine decision. Located within spitting distance from our place, the Norwegian watering hole has quickly become a happy hour haven and a late-night lighthouse. We met the bartender that fateful night, and he's nothing short of skin-coated hegemony. Marc and I have become quick friends. He's a former college boxer who may or not have (but definitely has) had his brain rattled around against the walls of his cranium like a game of liar's dice way too many times. He's thorough entertainment. He knows what I like to drink, he charms the ladies (mine included), and he pours drinks 'til four in the morning. Did I mention it's literally around the corner from where I live? That's probably how I ended up in there last night after the first time I called it a night (see previous post). The coolest thing about having a bar: I walked in last night, he saw me, and my beer was waiting for me at the bar before I even saddled up. I like to party.

Central Park: Dominated

2010-09-09T13:19:00.000-04:00

You'll be happy to know I've officially taken up running again. I've noticed my running patterns correspond with the times in my life when I've been really happy, really depressed, or criminally bored (whatever that means). Well, Hegeys, your favorite blogger is really happy right now, and the miles are piling up. I've been stomping on every inch of this god damned megaopolis lately, leaving Peter-shaped tread marks on New York City's face. Today's victim was Central Park, and it never had a chance.

I love stepping outside our door and knowing that whichever direction I take off running, I'm gonna have great scenery and great trails. Today's shot: from the Eastern edge of The Reservoir, I stood with hands on my hips, sweat dripping, and my Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart Pandora mix pumping through my headphones, sending acoustic waves of pleasure crashing together somewhere in the space between my ears. It was a nice moment, and being a man for others, I thought I'd share it with you. Booya:

I'm glad I got the run in first thing this morning, 'cause it could be a long night. The NFL kicks off tonight, and parlayed with my Gigantes fighting for their post-season life and happy hour with Juice and Cappa, things might get awesome. So put on your jock straps, it's game time.

The Pad

2010-09-05T11:23:00.000-04:00

A lot of you asked to see the new place. Ye hath now received. The only thing not included in these shots is the sweet-ass futon that so many of you are eventually gonna be sleeping on. And yes, our bedroom IS twice the size of our living room. So it goes.

Note the neck pillow I wore around my spinal cord while driving 3,000 miles in an unadjustable moving truck seat. I love ergonomics. Also pictured: a TV from Matey's yard sale :(

Eventually, our "office" portion of the bedroom will include many shelves to house our many books that are as of yet unpacked and living in a giant tower behind the door...

Two closets. One of them is mine. Awesome...

Candles above the bed. For sexy time...

A framed photo collage has been planned for the empty wall space. Submit your favorite shots and see yourself here...

Chase knows she's not allowed in the kitchen. She provocatively crosses the line to spite us. And Sierra has nice toes...

Who says I'm living a prolonged adolescence? I can celebrate my frat bros and get my sous on at the same time. Skills. And yes, that's 42 inches of pure pleasure in the background (an old nickname of mine)...

White Squall

2010-09-02T09:50:00.000-04:00

I rode my scarlet steed, an early 80's Japanese road bike, into SoHo yesterday to spend some time with former college roommate and long-time Hegemaniac, White Squall. The ride down was fantastic. I took the Hudson Parkway, and basically opened up the turbo thrusters and cruised at a supersonic Mach awesome. I was there in no time, allowing us to watch the sun go down from his rooftop.

Today's shots: this city gets better everyday. It's all at once chaotic, beautiful, and marvelous. It's electric, eclectic, and magic. And it feels more like home everyday. Oh, and the ride home in the dark, with the galaxy of city lights reflecting off the river, wasn't terrible either.

There Is A God

2010-08-31T16:55:00.000-04:00

My dad sent me this video. I don't know how he found it, or what he was doing when he found it, or what his search terms were, or why he was comfortable sharing it with me. But I do know that this may be the single-most important thing that you will ever watch. You're so welcome...

2010-08-30T15:47:00.000-04:00

Today's shot: there's another heatwave vaporizing everyone in NYC. Highs are supposed to reach 95 in some parts of the city, rendering outdoor activities foolish and snowball fights futile. So naturally, as someone who stares directly at the sun and says "pfft", I went for a long-ass run.

I walked down the block to Riverside Park and warmed-up with some pushies and sitties in the cool shade of the trees. The guns were feelin' extra explosive, so I popped the top and jogged down to the water's edge. Once there, I realized I had absolutely nothing better to do, so I took off running. Seven miles later as I was doing wind sprints up the steep embankment back to street level (pfft), I snapped a photo of a giant effing church. I threw some sweaty party horns in the foreground 'cause I like to have a good time. It's pretty much a worthless photo, but I promised you one per day and I'm a man of my word (not really). Plus, I was almost home and knew I'd probably collapse in a puddle of heat-stroked misery on my kitchen floor, and therefore not have the chance to take a picture of anything else. So here ya go...

Sand Guidos

2010-08-29T22:14:00.000-04:00

Today's shot: went to some beach on Long Island with one of Chase's 3 dads. It was 92 degrees, no humidity, and we body-surfed on Hurricane Danielle swells. But since you're probably just a bunch of dudes reading this, BOOBS.

How 'Bout This...

2010-08-28T14:20:00.000-04:00

I don't always feel like writing, and I'm sure you don't always have time to read. So let's compromise. I'll try to throw up at least one picture a day from something I've done, seen, or dominated, and you can just stare at it drooling like the brain dead derelict you are. Deal? Good. It's happening.

Today's shot: after riding our bikes all along the Hudson, from our place on 120th down to somewhere in the lower 20's, we spotted a crusty old sea vessel covered with barnacles and adorn with a full bar and tables. We knew how to handle that situation. We boarded the ol' lady of the sea and drowned the scurvy in age-old pirate elixir. Arrrrrrrrrren't ya jealous?

Let Me Be Your Tour Guide

2010-08-27T16:45:00.000-04:00

Come on. Who's gonna be the first bro to come visit me in this wacky town? Matey? Aus10? BoRo? El Machino? Bill? Dustin? Piper? Sauce? Carde? Napoleon Bronaparte? Let me be your tour guide. There's so much to do...

Imagine us gallivanting around this town on the best bro date ever. We would start by wearing matching LFTs to the Queens beer garden, smashing pitchers of PBR and arm-wrestling until I slam the back of your hand through the picnic table and the bouncers kick us out. We'll look at each other, shrug, and skip off to the next place. We'll share a hot dog at Ground Zero, each eating from opposite ends, until I insist you take the last bite because I'm great like that. We'll head over to the Chelsea Pier and hit golf balls into the Huddy. We'll have a long-drive contest for shots of whiskey until the sun starts to disappear behind the buildings. We'd then head over for a bromantic dinner at the diner where Seinfeld was filmed. Or maybe you're a classy bitch, and we'd go to one of the celebrity chef's restaurants and ask to see him. We'd pose with Mario Batali or Morimoto and have them sign our tongues.

Then we'd hop on the train up to the Bronx to catch the Yankee's game. BoRo, this is where you could get arrested and I could bail you out. We'd heckle A-Rod and Jeter for not being as bro'ed out as us, and we'd drink big beers until security escorted us out. We'd finish the night at the Lion's Head Tavern right up the street from me. We'd probably eat about 400 buffalo wings each and puke on the way home. Matey, you would build a fort in the living room. You'd fall asleep alone, but you'd wake up with me drawing bad mood eyebrows on you. It would be the bee's knees.

So who's it gonna be? The clock's ticking...

By the way, if you missed that first bro link, don't miss it this time. Dude's a genius, and if I weren't so refined these days, I'd consider making it the Hegemony Constitution. (NSFW)

Ode To M'Lady

2010-08-25T09:39:00.000-04:00

It's August 25th, and every year around this time, I'm reminded how lucky I am that she was brought into this world. Sierra was named for the mountains she was born surrounded by -- the same mountains that brought me so much happiness as a kid who grew up skiing in Lake Tahoe. We went our entire lives without knowing the other, but always knew eventually we would meet. When we finally did meet, the lost time didn't matter, because we had the rest of time to make up for it. So that's what we've been doing. Over the last two-plus years we've been inseparable; traveling and exploring, movin' and shakin', pointing and mocking... the less-dominant couples. I fell for her quickly, and that was before I even knew she once had a mullet...

Sierra has been my best friend since I met her, and I spend a large majority of my time sucking, so she's patient. She's my support staff and my pit crew. She's my personal laugh factory, my source of wonder and inspiration, and the only one more capable of crushing Jeopardy questions while simultaneously voicing her disgust with Alex Trabek. She has it all: the beauty worthy of my stunning/disarming good looks, the brains capable of melting my face, and the laugh more contagious than Chase hair. I'm a lucky-ass dude, and for one day a year I stop celebrating myself, and celebrate my Love. Happy birthday, m'lady!

Forget You Not

2010-08-24T18:08:00.000-04:00

I haven't forgotten about any of you. Quite the contrary, actually. Rather, I've been keeping as busy as possible so that I will have fun and interesting word nuggets to feed you. Why just today I had a meeting on the 16th floor of The Trump Building on Wall Street. And after establishing how big of a deal I am, I grabbed a lamb gyro with extra tzatziki and ate it in front of the proposed site for the new mosque you've probably heard about. You know, the one Fox News wants to build two blocks from Ground Zero. Hey, it's okay with me; we're a god damn tolerant and resilient country.

And a while back, Juice and I had just climbed the stairs out of the subway on our way to play hoops, when we found ourselves right in the middle of a film shoot. We were surrounded by onlookers, but of course being tall is advantageous for more than ceiling-fan installation, so I was able to peer over the rows of heads and see my man, Larry David.

"It's fucking L.D.!" I shouted, like a man capable of shouting great things shouts. Ignoring the turning heads and disgusted faces, I threw Larry a strong set of party horns and continued on my way to hardcourt hegemony. That's L.D. below with, I'm not sure about this, but a guy who looks a lot like the creep who wears snake skin suits to Clippers games.

So there you have it. Here I am living in the financial, cultural, and in my opinion, entertainment capital of the world, and I've given you a real-life example of each. And I've only been here for a New York minute.

Rock Hard A.B.B.S.

2010-08-06T10:56:00.000-04:00

In case you live under a rock and haven't heard the news, the brothers Anderson have a new duel under way. Hysteria has gripped the nation, and why not. Welcome to the Anderson Brothers Burrito Showcase! The rules for ABBS are simple: we will document each and every burrito from this point forth, decorating it with party horns. You see, the Andersons are passionate about three things in this life: burritos, party horns, and fine ladies. So I hope Google has a big trunk, 'cause I'm putting my bike in it.

Gabe had come out of the gates quickly with a commanding two burrito to none lead, but that was before Juice's surprise birthday party last night in Brooklyn. That's right, I had a burrito imported into the bar. The below photo was sent to Gabe with the following cryptic and menacing taunt: "... And a mustache. Have fun engraving the trophy. Oh, and they call it 'The Biggest Handheld in New York'. How appropriate. That's what they call me".

8====D~~~;( FACE!

Horsing Around In Saratoga

2010-08-04T11:35:00.000-04:00

Sierra and I took the not-at-all sketchy Double Pleasure Bus Line up to Saratoga Springs this past weekend for a long, horse-themed weekend with Gabe and Jen. Jen picked us up at the sidewalk we were dumped on in Albany, across from two beauty supply shops, a fish fry shack, and a military surplus store, and chauffeured us up to horse country. The weather was finally beautiful, so we took it straight to the polo match. Gabe and Jen's friends from across the drink, Richard and Melanie, came along and spoke fancy while we mowed through our burrito and vodka tailgate. Yup, high-society folk.

In between "chuckers," some kind of horse intermission, fans are encouraged to pour onto the polo grounds and stomp horseshoe-shaped divots, presumably to help the horses avoid injury and subsequently take a bullet in the head. The ladies had good form, but they forgot the party horns. Fail.

We woke up early the next morning and prepared for our day at the world famous Saratoga Race Course. The rolling coolers were filled with delicious snacks and Labatt Blue Light. The Guns N' Roses LFT was on, obviously, 'cause I piss excellence.

By the way, thats Mr. Filthy above in the orange plaid. And I promise you that by the end of this post, his dog will hump my leg. But not before I drape myself in America and celebrate freedom with mini-Hulk.

You may have noticed the lack of actual horses in all the photos. That's because they spontaneously combusted, along with panties everywhere, when they saw the fabled Double Anderson Party Horn. Sorry horses. Anderson Brothers: 1, Equine: 0.

Sunday, after extinguishing thousands of horses and underpants, we wandered the streets of downtown Saratoga. Our first stop was a pop-in at Trotters, where we pounded 32 oz bloody Marys and played the "one of these boobies is different game". Mr. Filthy looks exactly how I felt: surprised and outraged that I'd never played such a fine game.

Then we put our fancy pants on and sauntered on over to 9 Maple for martinis and pinkie extensions.
I blame the weekend of exhausting fun and drinks for my lowered guard and vulnerability to the shin rape, but as promised, here's Isaac having sexy time with my dignity.

Thanks again, Gabe and Jen, for showing us how to do Saratoga right. We'll be back soon, with shin guards.

America, You Beautiful Bitch

2010-07-29T12:30:00.000-04:00

It's been over a month since I talked to you last, and it's safe to say that during that time, I've done more than you. No offense, I'm just more interesting. Most notably, we drove a 16' moving truck across the country and moved into our Manhattan apartment. But not before the Nor-Cal Hegemaniacs all rendezvoused in Sac for one last dance and helped blow the mother-effing roof off of our soon-to-be vacant apartment building.

After jerry-rigging a waterfall from our top balcony, inflating the sidewalk raft, firing up the grill, and cranking up the classic rock, the game was on. Sauce went straight for the top step back flop, laying the foundation for a wet n' wild last hoorah.

As the sun began to set, and the burgers and cops had been made my bitch, it was time to strap on the 1989 North American Tour Guns N' Roses LFT and head straight to Faces, our friendly neighborhood gay dance club. We danced into the wee hours of the morning before finally stepping out back for a breather. And wouldn't you know it, a refreshing swimming pool caught the moonlight and twinkled in my eye. What would Axl do?...

After being 86'ed from Faces, we made the long walk home, dripping in freedom. It was a perfect way to end one helluva run in Sacramento.

The truck had been loaded, the bank's realtor had been punked, and we were on the road with a cooler full of vodka and the leopard-print Snuggie within easy reach.

The first stop on our journey was Lake Tahoe, where we would spend the next two days on the planks of Matey's dock, resting, drinking, and celebrating my big 3-0. The next week would be spent on the road driving no less than eight hours a day and staying the night with either friends, relatives, or at sketchy roadside motels. So needless to say, the perfect way to prep for such a long and strange adventure, was to soak up the sun in my favorite place in the world.

Our time in Tahoe was fast, but it was the perfect way to begin our ass-numbing trip to New York. We said goodbye to the crew, Chase hopped in the driver's seat, and that was that-- goodbye California!

We stayed in Park City, UT our first night on the road. Matey's cousin was kind enough to let us house-sit for the night, so we thanked him by terrorizing his cat and drinking wine in his jacuzzi. Thanks, Cuz!

The drive from Utah into Golden, CO was easily our favorite leg of the journey. Make no mistake about it, you HAVE to see the Rockies at some point in your life. If you don't, well, you're a deadbeat and hate beautiful shit, so do it.

A board member from Sierra's former organization, Solar Cookers International, welcomed us to Golden with a delicious solar-cooked vegetarian lasagna and a comfortable place to sleep. We were also treated to an earth-shaking thunder and lightning storm which sent Chase into a trembling, irritable-boweled conniption fit-- a theme that continued throughout our trip due to Fourth of July fireworks in every fucking town we stayed. Note to everyone: Omaha on July 4th is a Beirut cesspool. I hate you, Omaha. Oh, and we saw some giant freakin' elk, too.

We eventually made it through the middle of the country (pictures not available, nor taken), and arrived at the doorstep of longtime Hegemaniac, and one of Chase's three dads, Bill. He took us on a tour of The Windy City, including our favorite landmarks the Golden Boner, The Bean, and the fountain with a projected image of animated human faces spitting on people. After dinner in The Loop, we picked up some Old Style tall boys and lounged in Bill's backyard, catching up on homey gossip and laying plans for the next reunion of Tucson imbeciles.

After what seemed like only a day or two, but in actuality was exactly a week, we arrived in Saratoga Springs, NY, where we were welcomed by my Broey Buttafucco and my Sister-in-Lawesome, Jen. We immediately hit the backyard for BBQ'ing, cocktails, and mustache chatter.

We had finally arrived in New York, and the final stop would be Manhattan-- our new home for the foreseeable, and unforeseeable, future. Armed with a team of movers (thanks Makstradamus & Broseph!), we unloaded the 16' beast and began to wonder how we would fit our entire lives into this comically small, but big for the City, new apartment.

It was an amazing voyage, and we were lucky to have friends welcoming us all along the way. If you were one of them, thank you! We couldn't have done it without you.

But alas, the above is just one week of the more than five weeks that I've abandoned you, leaving you to convulse in the gutter, fighting one mean Hegemony withdrawal. So stay tuned, be patient (that means you, Rob, you fuckface), and I promise to get you all caught up. There are a million things to tell you about, so here, take a teaser. Bullets, please...

the air conditioning racket
the dog beach in the East Hamptons
the neighborhood
the crazy bartender
the couch
the Daily Show
the dog walker
Larry David
the humidity
my unstoppably sweaty balls

...mmm, salty. Talk to you soon, Hegeys!

You Motorboatin' Sonuva Bitch!

2010-06-21T16:08:00.000-04:00

Sooooo, I owe you the usual apology: it's been forever since my last entry, and I'm sorry. I'm not worthy of your love, blah blah blah, please take me back, I can't live without you, sad face and :..(

Good news is, I've been a motorboatin' son of a bitch lately, so you can't get too mad at me. Actually, I've been a rubber-boating son of a bitch AND a motorboating son of a bitch (the nautical kind and the lady-mammary kind). It all started after work Friday with a quick stop at our favorite happy hour joint, Ink. We had drinks and apps with a couple of Sierra's (soon-to-be-ex) co-workers before heading home to get ready for a night at the comedy club to see Felipe Esparza.

Lo and behold, upon docking my street-vessel to the curb, what did we spy? Well, shiver me timbers, but our land-lubbing neighbors across the street were traversing the tranquil waters of the P Street sidewalk aboard their trusty dinghy, the SS Awesome. We quickly mixed our favorite elixirs to ward off the scurvy, and sprang aboard the mighty ship. We sailed into the early evening hours doused in laughter and rum.

Following our late-night sushi/comedy date on Friday, we woke up early Saturday, packed our cooler and lounge chairs, and headed to the mighty Sacramento River for an all-day party in the sun. After establishing my dominance at the hangy-testicle toss game, we hopped aboard a much more sea-worthy vessel than the SS Awesome, and cruised up and down the life-line of the Sacramento Valley. It was a beautiful day, spent with good friends and great food; exactly the kind of day we're gonna be missing while simmering in a humid East coast summer.

With our days now numbered and dwindling quickly, I'm ever-more appreciative of all of the special moments my hometown has given me. I'll miss you Sacramento.

Scenes From the (Near)Future

2010-05-04T16:23:00.000-04:00

I promised a certain beautiful young woman that I would spend less time checking fantasy baseball stats, and more time writing. Alas, my most recent post was a month ago. And the correlation between the start of baseball season and my last entry is more than coincidence, it's downright dubious. So without further ado, more writing...

Leaving Sacramento will be visceral. I was born here. I've grown here, played here, laughed here, cried here, fell in love here. I've even left here before, but though I wouldn't have admitted it then, I always knew I'd return here. But this time is different. I'm different. I don't need to come back anymore. There's nothing left for me. The prolonged adolescence I sought when I first returned has since matured into an adulthood flanked on all sides by happiness, content, and a hunger to move forward. I'll only look back affectionately, with no regret.

We'll have our truck loaded with exactly 487 square feet-worth of furnishings and kitchenware. I'll call for Chase to jump up and settle in to her navigator's seat, directly between me and Sierra. I'll reach for Sierra and hold her close as we exchange knowing smiles. We'll turn our backs to our first home together, join Chase inside the moving truck, and then we'll be gone.

I'll make the right turn onto 26th, another right onto N, and then ascend the freeway ramp pointing to I-80 East. But we won't be taking the Truckee exit to go see Matey in Tahoe. We certainly won't be taking any of the Reno exits, because we're not dusty. No, we'll just keep driving, probably until the sun falls off the bottom of my side-view mirrors and we're somewhere near the Nevada-Utah border. We'll drive through the endless salt lakes of Utah, and Chase will become restless. We'll climb the majestic Rocky Mountains, then descend alongside snaking mountain rivers and streams, all while Chase sleeps with her snout on my lap. We'll share our contempt for the government-subsidized cornfields which grow without end through Nebraska and Iowa. We'll discuss our sense of pride as we travel through our great President's home state of Illinois, before staying the night at our great friend Bill's Wrigleytown home. We'll pass through Indiana with growing anticipation. Ohio will be a blur. I'll call my mom from Pennsylvania, her home state, and tell her I miss her. And then, by the grace of God, we will have arrived in New York. New York! And Chase will sit up, tilt her head sideways like she always does when things are about to get interesting, and I'll say to her, "welcome home".

We'll pull our moving truck - dusty and trusty - up in front of our building. I'll put it in park, rub Chase on the head, kiss Sierra, and

Snappy Snout in San Francisco

2010-04-07T15:27:00.000-04:00

Seen here wearing teal and gazing aloofly at my heterosexual past, I spent a relaxing Saturday afternoon in Delores Park, where Sierra, Sauce, Matey, and Chase all joined me for a day in the sun.

The place was packed with fellow park-goers. Sierra solar cooked spinach parmesan tortellini and garlic bread, which we all quickly devoured. But only one certain lady solar cooked a can of hegemony, and her name is Chase; she eats grass. Nay, she destroys grass.

Ah, good times. Spring is here, and the livin', and eatin', is good.

Bush Diving - Rated G

2010-04-02T18:35:00.000-04:00

Here's Matey high-jumping into a bush a few weeks back. No stories to tell here, just a good way to start the weekend. And what a weekend it is-- baseball season officially starts on Sunday night!

Happy Birthday, Bro Bro!

2010-04-02T16:25:00.000-04:00

He's the fastest white person on the planet, but loves to get down easy. He's the nicest dude alive, but grows a mean mustache. He is regarded as the finest Nicolas Cage impersonator in Saratoga Springs, but refuses to cut the chit-chat.

He's my brother, and it's his birthday. Happy effin' birthday, Broseph!

Nearly 11 years ago (11 years?! What!), Gabe and I drove a cargo van filled with rubber dog shit from Poughkeepsie, NY to Sac Town, CA following Gabe's college graduation. It was a week I'll never forget. Gabe and I got to know each other like never before; spending 10 hours a day trapped in a cube accommodates that. We gambled in Niagara Falls, visited family in Cleveland, and marveled at the endless worthlessness of Nebraska, Iowa, and Utah. We traversed the mighty Rocky Mountains, crossed the Sierras, and finally arrived back in California. It was a classic bro-ad trip. A few short years later though, Gabe and Jen moved back to New York and I've been deprived of regular brother shenanigans ever since.

Until....

Until this summer, when Sierra and I will be making our own cross-country trip, albeit via the Southern route, culminating in the beginning of the next chapter of our lives: NYC.

So hang tight, Bro Bro, we'll be there soon. And as for the shenanigans? We'll have to make up for lost time.

Cheers. brotha!

I Love Weddings (With Twins)

2010-03-20T16:30:00.001-04:00

Sierra and I were two of only a few very special guests at a wedding in the foothills a few weeks back. And if you know me at all, you know I'm pessimistic, or realistic, and that wouldn't seem to translate to me enjoying weddings, seeing as how so few of them work out these days. But guess what? I love weddings! All of 'em. Every one I've ever been to has been awesome! From my Bro Bro and his wife's, to Dustin and Jen's, to the countless others I've been a guest at, I always have a great time. Perhaps it's because love is in the air and everything seems so hopeful, so wide open. Maybe it's the open bar, or the fun of wearing sunglasses and drinking in your dress clothes. Wherever the intangible fun comes from, it showed up again at Julian and Andreea's wedding.

Julian is an old friend of Sierra's. I don't know him well, but I know he likes to party. So, using deductive reasoning, I like him. The ceremony was simple and fun, including a live web-feed to the bride's family back home in Romania. The food was good, the weather was great, and flexing my redonkulous athletic prowess, I was able to box-out and out-leap all the other men to snatch the bride's garter, after which my immediate instinct was to smell it. Men are awesome.

So yeah, I love weddings. Does that make me less of a man? Not as long as I keep sniffing women's undergarments and posing like a marsupial. I rule.

Happy St. Patrick's Day

2010-03-17T17:16:00.000-04:00

"Oooh, the grass is soft."

2010-02-22T21:07:00.000-05:00

Has it really been 15 years since the first time I listened to this? Ahh, the memories. I ordered Adam Sandler's What the Hell Happened to Me? through one of those 12-CDs for-a-penny deals, and to this day, it has proved to be the best 1/12 cent I have ever spent. The album became part of the soundtrack for my junior year of high school-- one of the best years of my life. So hit play while I reminisce on the good old days... (NSFW) (and by Not Safe For Work, I mean this shit is laced with language a rum-bellied pirate would take offense to, so, you know, no kids or bosses allowed).

Welcome, Hegeys, to the year 1997. Your favorite blogger was a tall, goofy, pimple-faced junior at Jesuit High School, an all boys college preparatory school in Carmichael, California. I thought I knew everything there was to know. I was captain of the golf team. I was dating the prom queen (from another school, not ours. Not that there's anything wrong with that). My grades weren't great, but with my SAT scores and extracurriculars I was confident I could get into any (party) school I wanted. My situation was even such that I a) had no curfew b) had no discipline and c) could pretty much get away with anything I wanted. And I did. My friends' parents referred to me as "Ferris", the imp-faced troublemaker from the classic film Ferris Bueller's Day Off. It's not that I was a bad kid-- I never stole, never cheated, never fought-- it's just that I did everything I possibly could do without getting caught. Which brings me to the first of many stories in which The Goat could be overheard...

Our golf team was really good. We were expected to not only make it to the state championships every year, but to compete for the title. And so, in the spring of '97, two Ford Econovans were rumbling down a remote Palm Springs highway, kicking up dust in their wake. The lead van, my van, had a pair of polka-dotted women's underwear flagged to the large antenna. Inside, boys were being boys. Adam Sandler's album was in the CD player, and my finger was in Allen's ear-- a perfect wet Willy. There were farts, burps, crude jokes, and possibly some skunky contraband. We arrived at our motel a little after dark, and after eating dinner and discussing plans for the next day (we were there to bring the State title home, after all), we said goodnight to our coach and began plotting our dubious adventure for the evening. It was decided that I would be the getaway driver in our masterminded flag-snatching.

Shortly after midnight, the Econovan's headlights illuminated the gated entrance to the host golf course. With military precision, I drove the clumsy cargo van through one fairway after another, circumnavigating every green as one of my teammates would tumble out the sliding door and sprint to remove the flag from every pin before diving back into the moving vehicle. The plan went off without a hitch, except for one moment of comic relief. Those of us in the van watched as Tim, blinded by the darkness, was running from the green towards the van. One second he was running with the speed and grace of a gazelle, and the next second, he had completely vanished-- as if he had fallen off the face of the earth. He had ran straight into a green-side lake. He emerged with muddy water running down his face and the dry flag raised proudly over his head. We laughed ourselves to sleep back at our motel.

Tee times for the next day's tournament were delayed over an hour, as the country club scrambled to find replacement flags. My flag, from hole #18, hung auspiciously above my desk until the day I left for college.

But the golf hijinks were just one small sample from a year wrought with laughter, pranks, and teenage idiocy. Other questionable decisions included:

A road trip to San Francisco on a school night, barely making it to school on time the next day and developing the incriminating and distasteful photos at lunch time in order to use them for a presentation. I eventually had to plead my case in front of an expulsion board.
Off-roading and mud-bogging in my '94 Saturn "Sport" Wagon, and eventually getting stranded in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the night, mirror-deep in mud.
A chili dog eating contest. I won, after shoveling 9 1/2 of them down my esophagus.
Weekly eggings and T.P.'ings. Every victim deserved it.
Garbage can-racing (and the challenge of explaining where all the dents on the car were coming from).
Breaking into country clubs after dark and night golfing with glow balls and Hawaiian shirts.
A running video documentary of our own prank show in which we constantly harassed the patrons of a local bar called The Trap. Flaming bags of dog shit not excluded.
And so many prank calls to Marakesh Moroccan restaurant that the police eventually became involved.

There are of course, an endless stream of memories running through my head, which are either too embarrassing or too under investigation to share here. Looking back, I'm amazed we got away with as much as we did. But that's just part of being a teenager, yeah?

I gotta go. I think I hear the old man coming...

Hey goat!

Hawaii One-O

2010-02-18T16:10:00.000-05:00

The worst part about the warm, luminescent waters, the gentle island breeze, and the care-free spirit of Hawaii is, of course, having to leave. And so, like many before us, we were forced to depart before we were ready. But not before we jammed as much family, adventure, food, drinks, snorkeling, relaxing, geckos, sunrises and sunsets, boating, swimming, off-roading, and octopuss-boiling as we possibly could into our whirlwind five day trip. I'll try to do the best I can to recap, but I know I'll barely scratch the surface. Also, the photos are in no kind of chronological order, so, whatever....

Below is the crew which occupied our ridiculous oceanfront house in Kona, minus Sierra's mom Kiyoko in the middle, and the ninja who is about to kill me.

Left to right is: Makoto (Sierra's ninja brother and producer of I Love Ninja ninjawear), me, Keira (daughter of Sierra's sister, Keturah, and her husband, Jason), Sierra, Kiyoko, Jasmine (other daughter of J and K), Keturah, Jason, Sierra's other sister Janette, and her boyfriend TK. Phew, ya got all that? Didn't think so. Movin' on...

The mythical "happy place" people are always referring to has been found. It's on the lanai of our beach house, strumming my new ukulele and sipping Kona-Kazis.

My yook was never far out of reach. Here it is pictured below being fondled by me at Kona Inn, where Sierra, Jason, Keturah, the girls and I had drinks, lunch, and an endless supply of sunshine and crashing waves. This is harder than I thought it would be. I keep trying to swim through the computer monitor. :(

Below is the snorkeling beach that was right down the street from our house. Sierra and my fedora took a stroll down by the water just before sunset on our first night...

And here we have an octopuss. Not a disemboweled surfer. Not my liver after a weekend with the boys. Not Octomom. An octopuss. And we boiled it for dinner on our first night in town. Welcome to Hawaii, said it's tentacles to my stomach.

With our bellies full of octo-treats, Sierra and her Sis got hula lessons from their aunt Doris. They were naturals, though Sierra brought her own twist to the timeless dance by trying to back that thang up.

And forget Tim Lincecum. I have a new bromantic crush. Meet Hiroki Morinoue, or Uncle Hiroki. He's one of the kindest, warmest, and funniest guys I have ever met. He's also an unparalleled artist, and I was moved nearly to tears as he took us on a private tour of his gallery and studio. Uncle Hiroki, along with his talented and beautiful family, made Hawaii an unforgettable experience all by themselves.

When we weren't by the beach or catching up with the family, we were puttin' back our signature drink of the week, the Kona-Kazi: a mixture of pineapple juice, kiwi, guava, strawberry, and a heavy dose of rum. In the background, you can see Keturah demonstrating what we all looked like at any given moment while basking in some downtime at our house. The glasses were, for all intents and purposes, glued to our snouts.

Sierra's brother, Makoto, and his friend volunteered to drive us an hour up the coast to an isolated stretch of beach that only a few locals know about. It was breathtaking, and not just because of the 30 minute off-road rumble over lava rock to get there. We were greeted by a high-five-giving sea turtle, and spent the remainder of the day swimming and boogie boarding until the sky turned red.

Keira was one with the creatures of the island. After giving daps to a turtle, she bonded with this gecko... right before he jumped onto her eye.

And of course, the Hawaiian party horns...

Jason, TK, and I took a bro-stroll along the beach on Valentine's day, and happened upon a table set for two. Who sat on who's lap isn't what's important. What's important is that the three of us had a beautiful moment together in paradise. Bro-ners, everywhere.

While the boys were playing grab-ass and talking about feelings, Sierra was busy harassing hermit crabs on the shore. Look at this guy clinging to a giant piece of coral as she relocates him to my heart. Awwww...

Finally, I was able to snatch my little valentine hula girl up for some alone time under the sunset. God, I really, really would like to go back now. Who's coming with me?

Here's TK checking out his reflection in the tide pool. I'll tell ya what you're looking at, Teek-- awesome. You're looking at awesome, and it's shaped like you. Did I mention it was Valentine's weekend?
What the hell-- here's another picture of a dude I love who isn't me. Jason doing his Rocky pose on some lava rock...

Captain Chuck took Sierra, Geoff, Maki, Keturah, and I on an early morning boat ride. Though the Catchem 1 is a sport-fishing boat designed to reel in 1,000 lb marlin, we didn't even get a bite. We did, however, see a pod of whales sleeping in a perfect line, and perhaps the highlight of Keturah's trip, many, MANY dolphins!

SHARK! SHARK! Just kidding. That's me the girls are running from, and I'm awesome. Ladies....

Life's a beach...
The view from our lanai. *Sniff, sniff* Sacramento sucks compared to this. I wanna go back....

That's all I got for now, Hegeys. The stories in this post, like our trip, were way too short and kind of amazing. Time to get back to reality. Aloha!

FAIL: Extreme Matey

2010-02-08T12:35:00.000-05:00

UPDATED: The DJ Austen-Tatious remix down at the very bottom. Enjoy.

If your local grocery store was fresh out of Mountain Dew yesterday, it's because it was all in Santa Rosa. More specifically, it was sloshing around in Matey's tummy as he geared up for a super radical bike jump in his neighbor's backyard. The video's grainy and the action doesn't really begin until about the 30 second mark, but the first thirty seconds will make you think you're watching a bonus scene from RAD (you should seriously consider clicking that link, by the way). It's that good.

EXTREME!!!

Way to go, pal. You make Cru Jones look like a clown on a unicycle. And don't worry, chicks dig scars.

I Hate Schmoozing

2010-02-03T19:47:00.000-05:00

Don't get me wrong, Hegeys. I love floating around a room sharing charming anecdotes, exchanging meaningless niceties, and feigning interest in the lives of people I'd otherwise chalk-up as dull, self-interested half-retards. Of course, I'm referring to my own cocktail parties, filled with people whom I have personally invited, or who are at the least, connected to me by less than three Kevin Bacons. A work party, however, is a wholly different creature.

When my office chose to throw an open house earlier this week and invite local "celebrities," I knew both my patience and my expertise in the art of bullshittery would be tested. I wish I had a manuscript of the venomous monologue running through my head whilst I listened, grinned, nodded, and suffered my way through an entire afternoon of Sacramento's most ego-starved businessmen and politicians. To exacerbate the misery, there wasn't a drop of alcohol within three city blocks.

The keynote speaker was Sacramento mayor, Kevin Johnson, who, incidentally, was the one person in attendance I was actually looking forward to having a conversation with. You see, we have history, he and I.

In 1991, I went to a Kings-Suns game at the old Arco Arena. In the breezeway, one of the concessions was a basketball hoop set up with some tape on the ground marked off at a free-throw's distance. If you made three free-throws in a row, you got an authentic NBA basketball. Basically, I reached my athletic prime at 11, so I knew I was automatic from the line. Sure enough, I drained all three-- snapping the net and avoiding iron each time. I got my ball, and the Kings went on to lose. We stayed after and went courtside to try to decorate my new ball with autographs. Kevin Johnson was the only player kind enough to give me his Hancock. I thanked him, and he thanked me. I've liked him ever since, even if we do have some fundamental political imbalances.

And so, when I finally got my chance to tell him my story, he seemed genuinely touched. He even went so far as to say that he remembered me (Kev... you!). But that was just a brief and shiny interlude during an otherwise torturous exhibit of pomp and hubris. I've never been in a room full of so many uninteresting, humorless, self-promoting shit-stains in my life, said Jay Leno.

Have a good weekend, gang. I'm off to win a charity poker tournament tonight, then cheer on the Saints in Santa Rosa on Sunday. Holler.

Bwahahahaha!

2010-01-30T18:54:00.000-05:00

Sorry, Hegeys, I know I've been slackin' a bit as of late. You know how it goes: all work and no play makes Peter a boring boy. Good news is Matey and Aus10 are due to arrive in my fair city in about 30 minutes, and there's usually at least one good story to tell once the dust has settled.

In the meantime, get weak at this:

New Year's Weekend

2010-01-14T11:09:00.001-05:00

Basically, New Year's Eve 2009 and the weekend that followed was one long frat party-- indicative of the standard 10:3 boy to girl ratio. No worries though. Who needs women when the light beer is flowing, the bro-mance is palpable, and the social and emotional maturity levels are plummeting by the gulp.

As a special treat, Chase's once-surrogate "my two dads," Bill and Cappa flew in from Chicago and New York, respectively. Also in from New York was my old roommate, brother of Matey, and Turkey Tom-stasher, Juice, along with his girlfriend, Ellen.

Other notable Hegemaniacs in attendance included: the Good Doctor Carde, Nikki, Matey, Sterling, Sauce, Aus10, and of course, the two lovely ladies in my life, Ski-Ski and Snoutacus.

The night was spent playing countless rounds of Fuck It, several games of Scrabs, and an unfathomable amount of grab-ass and hide-the-salami-- both Beta Theta Pi classics.

There was no shortage of stink-eyes getting flashed by the women, especially Chase, who simply could not believe we haven't matured even the slightest bit since she was brought into this shit-show 9 1/2 years ago. In fact, if anything, I'd say we've probably devolved.

After reducing our apartment and the city which surrounds it to a smoldering pile of ashes and baby tears, the collection of idiots and I packed the caravan and headed up to Matey Manor in beautiful Lake Tahoe. Surely, a get-away to the pristine mountains would cleanse our livers and restore the dignity to our names. Surely.

Sierra, Chase, Zooey, and I got straight to work on a snowman while the others groomed the ski slopes with their faces. Chase doesn't help with snowman duties so much as she swallows shovel-loads of snow and assaults Frosty's torso.

But alas, we created a masterpiece, complete with a mossy mustache for that extra frosty sex appeal. And I don't mean to toot horns or anything, but when the rest of the crew returned from the slopes, there was some serious snowman envy happening.

It was a memorable 2009, and 2010 is off to a great start as well, thanks in large part to the concerted efforts of Bill and Cappa making the cross-country voyage to be with us. Thanks guys, I want my liver back.

2010 has a lot in store for me and Sierra, including our own cross-country transplant to The Big Apple in the summer. We're also off to Hawaii in February for Sierra's family reunion in Kona, and who the hell knows what else. It's gonna be the best year yet.

Here's to a new year, a new decade, and many years of man-child debauchery to come!

ABMGC III: The Showdown

2009-12-24T11:51:00.000-05:00

NOTE: Before continuing, you MUST right-click and open this link in a new window. Failure to do so will result in severe mustache penalties.

Bassy voice-over movie trailer guy: In a world where justice is elusive. Where the women are easy, the law is cold, and the mustaches are hard. This holiday season, two men with everything to lose and nothing to gain, will forever change the way you look at facial hair. They are: Mustaches of Steel!

After four long weeks of dedicated watering, feeding, nurturing, and pruning, our mustaches were ready to meet for the very first time. It was a showdown of Biblical proportions. Cue the fireworks:

Gabe came dressed as a cat burglar, ready to lurk in bushes outside your window, steal old women's jewelery, and tip-toe through laser-alarmed hallways. I countered with the look which comes most naturally to me: the '70's cop who breaks all the rules, won't take no lip from his Captain, and moonlights as a pornstar fluffer.

Yeah, it was a Christmas miracle.... for the ladies.

You're welcome, female libido. Try to control yourselves.

Have a very muzzy Christmas!

Love,

The Anderson Brother's Mustache Growing Contest, 2009

ABMGC III: A Close Call

2009-12-16T21:05:00.000-05:00

I have no idea what day it is in our little mustache contest. It's been a long, LONG time since I've plowed the pleasure pasture above my lip. The hairs are long and coarse. They spiral out of my face like tiny sausages through a meat grinder. Some lay flat, others reach for the the heavens via my nostrils. Sometimes I feel like the whiskers are growing inward and assaulting my cerebellum, tickling the joy right out of my pleasure receptors. I'm having night-terrors, wherein which I'm tangled up in a squid-like nest of mustache follicles, flailing desperately to find my way out. This contest, this assassination of self-esteem, has left me incapable of looking at myself in the mirror- a ritual once cherished by yours truly.

And for what?

A chalice with a 'stache guard?

Preposterous!

No. No, Peter. Be strong! Lift your chin, my beleaguered wispy warrior! Feel the tentacles upon your face-canvas! Allow them to thrive as a wholly separate organism! Give up the controls- you've lost control anyhow- and simply become a passenger on this most excellent mustache voyage. Gabe would.

Why do you scream, Peter? What did I say-- Gabe? Did I touch a nerve? Ahh, I see now. It's clear: Gabe has intimidated you with his intergalactic facial constellation, eh?

Of course he has. Who wouldn't be threatened by the pristine jewel of Mother Earth's crown? Go ahead. Quit. Lather your face with rich, sudsy, and marvelously scented bubbles. That's it, yes. Grab the Gillette off the basin. See the sparkle of that clean razor as it illuminates your empty eyes. Feel the weight of it in your trembling hand as you lift it to your quivering lip. Feels good, doesn't it? That's it, Peter, press it firmly to your face, just above your right upper lip. Yes, that's it, good. Now pull down. Erase that horrific stripe of testosterone. Cry as you do it, that seems appropriate. Go on, you can do it...

No! No! This is not how it will end (throws razor across bathroom)!

One more day. One more week. One more....

ABMGC III: Day 14

2009-12-10T11:33:00.001-05:00

Gabe has been bringin' it. He gave his wife the birthday gift every woman dreams about: a cleanly shaved chin and cheeks, which allowed the symphony that is a mustache to play first fiddle on his face. Happy birthday, Jen.... and every other young 'tache groupie out there.

That being said, a certain brown-haired, bristly associate of mine has something to say to all you ladies: Christmas has come early this year.

Go ahead, touch it. It won't bite.... hard.

That's right, my mustache and I busted out a move I like to call The Prairie Dog. Reminiscent of the game at Chuck E. Cheese, my head popped up just long enough for the bathroom security camera to capture a glamour shot. The only one getting clubbed on the head though, is Gabe's ego.

Similar to years past, a few Hegemaniacs have thrown their 'stache in the ring, eager to feel the transformative power of a lip sweater vest. Today's contestant is Pipes, who is concerned that a family Christmas party this weekend will force a premature evacuation from ABMGC. Stay strong, brother, nothing gets a yule log burning red hot like the festive antennae of a lip-wreath. Here's his submission, which drew immediate comparisons to the softly spoken, earring-wearing fella from Family Guy:

Lookin' strong, Pipes.

And that's where we're at, entering the second half of ABMGC III. Stay tuned for more hairy action!

ABMGC III: 10 Day Update

2009-12-06T21:06:00.000-05:00

It's day 1o of ABMGC III, and I figured the Hegemaniacs needed an update. As you might suspect, things are getting hairy. I performed my first grooming session on Saturday morning, just before leaving for a Christmas tree farm where many a needle were left feeling insufficient, and I gotta say, I'm satisfied with the results.

As predicted, my sub-nasal follicular cocoon is neither thick nor luxurious, but rather has the soul of a mustache twice it's age. You might even say it's fancy. And everything was moving along nicely, until I received a very menacing photo from my fraternal competitor:

Like Fannie is to May, and Barnes is to Noble, beans are to a mustache.

Demonstrating the timeless battle between man and bean, Gabe has clearly harnessed the controversial, yet undeniable power of mushy brown stuff. Touche, Brother. Touche.

... And the contest continues to pick up steam. How's your muzzy lookin'?

... One Year Later

2009-12-06T12:37:00.000-05:00

I woke up early today. I dressed warmly, packed the folding chair, and poured some Kahlua in my coffee mug. I told Chase to brace herself for a chill.

Why?

Because today is the 27th running of the California International Marathon, a race which features a home-stretch within spitting distance of my front stoop (and also a race which my Bro and I ran last year, sans 'stache). And as a two-time marathon finisher, I know that every sideline party horn is a log in the proverbial fire. So Chase and I did what any enthusiast of the human spirit would do-- we set up shop at Sutter's Fort and yelled motivational one-liners to really fast skinny people.

It was cold-- ass cold-- but we felt no discomfort as we heard the chirping of the police escort nearing our location. Approximately one mile from the finish line, Chase and I threw our party horns skyward as the two leaders of the pack came our way.

I'm sure I screamed something to the effect of "Get some! Finish Strong! There's a Kenyan on your heels!", but who knows. What is for certain, is that my party horn was returned. This guy, this amazing fucking runner who had one mile left to go before finishing what is considered the ultimate test of human endurance, locked eyes with me, smirked, and flashed a hip-side party horn. That pumps me up.

And so, almost exactly a year to the day from when Gabe and I ran from Folsom to the state Capitol for no good reason, I found myself hungover, dim-witted, slightly disgusted by my recent turkey-triggered weight gain, and thrusting party horns to the heavens above for no other reason than to encourage a guy who doesn't even have the self-respect to grow a mustache for the holidays. I hope you ended up winning, dude. Because the look on your face suggested that you wouldn't be satisfied with yourself if you didn't.

Congratulations to whoever the hell you are. The fact that you subtly countered my P-Horn with your numb hand speaks volumes of your character, and for that, I applaud you.

To human triumph under great duress--happy Sunday, my Hegemaniacs!

ABMGC III: The Reckoning

2009-11-27T12:00:00.000-05:00

After limping to the finish line last year with a shameful Sharpie mustache, I'm more determined than ever to cultivate a lip sweater so fine, so rich with integrity, that ABMGC III will forever be remembered as the Year of Redemption.

Sure, I'm up against great odds-- Gabe is already sanding wood with his cheek-- but I've got a plan. You see, there's a catch in the fine print of ABMGC Rules and Regulations, Section 4, Line 8, that reads: the winner will be decided based on not only thickness of follicle, but also in the design, procurement, and presentation of said mustache. So there you have it. That's called a window, my friends, and I'm crawling through it.

A modern day David Vs. Goliath, yes, but we all know how that story ends. I will slay the mighty Gabe-beast with my wizardry. My final 'stache will be a tribute to the meticulous snipping and pruning of Bonsai enthusiasts, worthy of display in a mall kiosk.

There's one final twist in ABMGC III that's sure to recruit outside participants, who are always welcome. There's a prize this year. That's right, a prize. As if the increased attention from the fairer sex weren't enough motivation, there is now something tangible on the line. I'd like to introduce you to the Chalice of Champions:

Currently housed in Matey's mountain mustache manor in Lake Tahoe, the Chalice of Champions has an existence shrouded by mystery. Believed to be given to Zeus himself as a housewarming present, it was then captured by the Mongols and hidden in the attic of the Great Pyramid, until years later when Chuck Norris seized possession of the cherished stein. How it got from the vice-grip of Chuck Norris into Matey's cabin remains clandestine, but one thing is certain: there is a built-in mustache guard to prevent your cookie duster from getting wet while sipping the contents.

The stakes are high, the bristles coarse. Who will capture the title and raise the Chalice of Champions this year? Will there be an outside threat? Will I be ostracized? Will I be forced to sleep on the couch... again? Only time and testosterone will tell. Happy growing, friends and foes. Happy growing.

The 'Reke Show

2009-11-11T12:07:00.000-05:00

Be jealous, Freak. Be very jealous. There's a new man-crush in my life, and his name is Tyreke Evans.

Miki, Pip and I got to see him up close and personal last night at the Kings game, and he's the real deal. He's got the quickest first step I've seen in a long time, he loves taking it strong to the hole, he's not afraid of contact, he hustles harder than the pesky old white guy at your gym, and he's automatic from the line. He's a future superstar in the league, and I pray the Kings can hang on to him.

The only thing more impressive than The 'Reke Show, was the ultra-clean sprinkler I rattled off on the Megatron. My signature move since Homecoming '94, The Sprinkler consists of one arm extended towards the court, while the other hand is cocked behind my head and pumping the extended arm in a mechanical party spray of sheer delight. Unfortunately, Arco Arena doesn't offer DVDs of Megatron footage, otherwise it would have gone viral by now. I did, however, capture the breakaway dunk that sealed the victory for my Kings, flushed by none other than Tyreke.

Yosemite

2009-11-10T14:42:00.001-05:00

We took a trip to Yosemite back in August, and HELLO! The combination of Half Dome, El Capitan, the Hanging Valley, Bridal Veil Falls, and the endless natural wonders equate to complete and unequivocal hegemony.

One of my favorite lines from Ken Burns' recent series on the National Parks was, in reference to Yosemite, something to the effect of, "as soon as someone sets their eyes on the majesty of Yosemite Valley, they are left without words to describe it... and then they go home and write a book trying to describe it to everyone they know."

Well said.

I was left speechless and truly without words to describe it. We can't wait to return.

Halloween: Snuggie Edition

2009-11-10T13:38:00.001-05:00

Happy belated Halloween, Hegeys! By now, the Snuggie has become inextricably woven into the fabric of our society; as American as apple pie, baseball, and Vince the Slap Chop guy. And as you may have guessed, Sierra and I were the obnoxious couple from the Snuggie commercials, who insist on wearing their Snuggies to baseball games, libraries, the theater, museum openings, G20 Summit hearings, etc. We were even able to integrate the free reading lamp which came with our designer Snuggies!

Fellow Hegemaniac, Pipes, was gracious enough to send me the following photo from his Halloween party, which features two girls posing in a creep sandwich:

No wonder parents don't feel safe letting their children go Trick-or-Treating anymore. Look at that unibrow!

The Freak and the Fuzz

2009-11-05T23:06:00.000-05:00

Confession time, Hegemaniacs: Tim Lincecum is my homeboy. Bromance doesn't begin to describe my man-crush, which every five days during baseball season, blossoms into a hybrid flower of rubber-armed envy and hetero-boundary pushing excitement. To watch him work through a Major League lineup is stupefying. He toys with the psyche of grown, uniformed men and makes baseballs magically pass through large maple bats. I probably should have written about The Freak (as he's known amongst us fans) a long time ago, but this isn't about baseball or his unhittable changeup-- nay, it's about him getting pulled over and arrested by the Washington State Patrol one week ago. And for what, you ask? Something much more hittable than his changeup (I'm not proud of that one). The Freak got caught green-handed, smoking the reefer while cruising in his Mercedes. And I love it.

Look, Hegeys, I don't condone drug use. There's a lot of evil stuff out there, and the world would be a much better place without unnatural chemical creations like methamphetamines and crack, but c'mon... marijuana? Though it's been close to a decade since the last time I sampled the kind greens, even then I passionately believed in not only it's medicinal purposes, but also in it's ability, for lack of better phrasing, to chill one out. Sure, ya might feel a little complacent and apathetic after a long night of bong rips, but aren't we our parent's children? We were exhaled from the wombs of flower children, hippies, peaceful warriors, freedom fighters, human rights activists, war protesters and let's be honest, probably conceived at a concert in Woodstock, New York. We RUN this country now. The unstudied and outdated laws of powdered-wigs-past are eons behind us. We are a young, empowered, and vital nation of forward-thinking progressivists, dealing with historic poverty, multiple futile wars, and an ever-evolving climate crisis. When are we gonna stop persecuting the users of this harmless and harmonious weed, which incarcerates the otherwise innocent, and start focusing on true crime, like, I don't know, the guy in Cleveland who raped and killed 11 crack hos and let their bodies rot in his living room while the police ignored reports of a stench so bad that a sausage and head cheese factory was forced to close for the day. Yeah, that kind of crime. [Deep breath]

I know I rarely get political on these here interwebs, but do yourself a favor and read this. With so many megademics literally destroying our planet, I'm entirely fed up with our "war on drugs," especially one that lands my man-crush in the slammer***. Fight the power, Freak!

*** Anyone know the conjugal visit policy in Washington?

Shay, You'll Nevergetme, Copper!

2009-10-23T12:21:00.000-04:00

This morning, like an open-faced pastrami sandwich on rye, justice was served... hot n' spicy!

Rewind.

I received an egregious moving violation a few months back from an officer with a chapped face. My crime: failing to yield at a yield sign. "How subjective," you might say. And that's why I like you-- you're level-headed yet liable to have a conniption fit when you sense injustice. So I did what any law-abiding citizen would do when the strong arm of the law tried to flex in my direction-- I flexed back, and the gun show was under way...

Rather than consult with any one of my four high school friends who are now lawyers (where did I go wrong?), I decided to take this beast of a case on all by myself. During my arraignment, I confidently pleaded Not Guilty, and just like that, Evil CHP Tyranny V. Anderson was underway. The light bulbs flashed, the press swarmed, and the judge had the bailiff escort the fun right on out of the courtroom. My trial date was set, and I went about building my case.

Fast-forward to earlier this morning.

I arrived in court looking dapper. Confident, not cocky; prepared, not obnoxious; pleasant to the olfactories, not over-powering; ready to fight the good fight. I've received many tickets in my day, mostly deservedly-so, but I knew deep in the dark recesses of my heart that I did not deserve this one. The judge entered the courtroom, and sparing you the overly-loquacious diarrhea of courtroom politicking, it went something like this:

Judge: Let's get ready to rumble.

-clerk in Fu Man Shu garb hits gong-

Officer: This dashing young defendant nearly hit me when he drove through a yield sign.

Me: Objection!

Judge: On what grounds?

Me: Coffee grounds.

-courtroom erupts in laughter, women swoon, Judge hammers gavel-

Officer: Throw the book at him, your Honor!

Me: Your Honor, allow me to cross-examine...

Judge: Well-played.

Me: Thank you, I work out.

-officer rolls eyes-

Me: Your Honor, I would like the officer to recite to the court the statute listed under the violation for which he has erroneously cited me. And when he's done doing that, I would like him to get on his knees and apologize for wasting your time and mine, while simultaneously turning your courtroom into his personal playground of injustice and depravity. I'm innocent your Honor, and I love your robe.

Judge: Well, Officer Chappy, can you answer this charming young man's request?

Officer: I... I... I want my mommy!

Me: Looks like the officer is in conwept of court!*

-courtroom explodes in laughter, Judge hammers her gavel only to have it burst into confetti, sexy court clerks strip their business attire to reveal bikinis and begin dancing on Judge's desk, MC Hammer enters courtroom and does Hammer Dance-

And that, my friends, is a true story. A true story of one man overcoming insurmountable odds and clutching victory from the cannibalistic jaws of injustice. You know it's true, 'cause I took an oath. Wink.

*You may insert other court-related jokes, such as: "Looks like the officer forgot to YIELD to his dignity."

*"Looks like the officer is guilty of being a pussy!"

Let it Rain!

2009-10-13T11:27:00.001-04:00

We're supposed to get about four inches of rain today. That's awesome. I love the rain, and I understand we're entering an El Nino winter, which means there will be plenty of it. If I'm not mistaken, we also had an El Nino cycle around the same time I was a junior in high school. There were frequent school closures due to flooding, and Dustin and I did everything we could to assist Mother Nature. I'm not talking about a rain dance...

Late at night, with the rain pouring down and still no official word on whether or not school would be cancelled the following morning, Dustin and I would suit up in our all black rain gear and hit the streets for what we considered assisted urban flooding. We wrapped storm drains in plastic, and diverted the flow of water towards them with fallen branches and leaves. We were unstoppable idiots, but there was nothing we enjoyed more than a day off school spent shotgunning cans of Sprite and playing Sega Genesis in his back house.

In retrospect, our guerrilla drainage control had zero impact on our schools cancelling classes-- they were about 10 and 20 miles away, respectively-- but we couldn't fight the urge to stomp around in knee-high water and contribute to the chaos.

Another friend, whose identity will remain a secret, figured out a much more efficient way of single-handedly cancelling school for the day. Dressed in a trenchcoat and gloves, "Kip" called the local TV networks from a Taco Bell payphone and under the guise of our Dean, he had them air our school closure on a relatively dry day. It worked beautifully, and more than half the student body enjoyed a "rain day."

Every heavy storm since, I'm cheerfully reminded of my high school glory days, when the shenanigans were plentiful and the Sprite was cold. Let it rain, let it rain!

A Cerebral Pause

2009-10-03T11:54:00.000-04:00

My love affair with beer began many moons ago. And over the years I've tried to taste a hoppy sample of everything the world has to offer. I've slapped bones with a Budweiser and penned poetry with a pen inked in pale ale. There was a Stiegel in Salzburg, and a Dos Equis in Mexico. I got thirsty in Hungary and drank a Dreher in Budapest. I poured pilsner on my palate in Prague, gulped Guiness in Dublin, hallucinated with a Heineken-in-hand in Holland, and who can forget the Molson in Montreal. Many of my travel photos have me posing right alongside my foamy friend, deliriously happy with one another.

So when I was approached by co-workers recently, and asked to join an elite team of beer connoisseurs with the intent of brewing our very own sudsy syrup, my liver nearly jumped out of my chest. Of course I was on board. A date was set to meet at Sacramento's very own Brew It Up, and after sampling some of our many options, the group decided on the Scotch Ale. The next three hours were spent bringing our labor of love to fruition, all the while enjoying pitcher after pitcher of what we would eventually be able to call our very own. And as I write this, our much anticipated bottling is a mere one week away!

They say you appreciate your food more if you get down in the soil and grow it yourself; or that you can understand the subtle intricacies of an engine if you open the hood and get your hands dirty. And so it goes, as Vonnegut would say, that when you spend an afternoon with barley running through your fingers, and your nose over a richly intoxicating and boiling vat, it is then that you fully appreciate that old true friend of yours-- beer.

For the six humble employees of United Cerebral Palsy, where the stress is high and the hours long, next Saturday is the moment that time will stand still, and we can all take a cerebral pause.

Nanaimo

2009-09-18T12:57:00.001-04:00

Talking with a co-worker yesterday, he mentioned that he has family in Nanaimo.

"Nanaimo!? Are you shitting me? I didn't think I'd ever meet another person in this life who had heard of Nanaimo," I told him.

And what's Nanaimo, you ask? Nanaimo is the gateway to Vancouver Island. And Vancouver Island, specifically Bowser, is where my friends and I spent three consecutive summers camping, fishing, clamming, boating, exploring, and generally stirring up adventure in the beautiful Canadian wilderness, eh.

It was the summer after our junior year of high school when we first made the trip. Three best friends at the time, Darren, Greg and I, piled our things into the SUV and headed North up the I-5. We passed ridiculous towns with names like Williams and Weed. We drove through flat farmland and densely-wooded mountain passes. We got a speeding ticket in Eugene, and stayed at The Scotchman's Inn just outside of Seattle. When we crossed the border into Canada, the road signs changed to kilometers and we pulled over and took pictures of them. We drove into Vancouver and bee-lined for the famed Cannabis Cafe. We stood speechless in the lobby as patrons freely rolled and smoked enormous joints. We got a table and I'm not surprised I can't remember what we ate. We stumbled out and explored the city on foot. We exchanged our money and laughed uncontrollably at "loonies" and "toonies". We stayed out all night, soaking in the foreign culture, with it's glorious oddities, liberal laws, and unusually friendly people. I don't remember feeling tired as the sun began to rise, but we had to catch a ferry. We drove to the ferry terminal, which was carved into a tremendous cliff, and waited to drive onto the massive ship which would take us to Vancouver Island.

The views from the bow of the ferry are still with me. As we pulled away from shore, with the sun rising behind the jagged timber-lined mountains, the silhouette of a bald eagle swooped over our boat and perched herself on a fallen tree by the shoreline. Already, I had never experienced such unfiltered nature. The Pacific ocean, up there where it kisses the pine-treed coast of Vancouver and collides with an endless horizon, left me goose-fleshed and slack-jawed in amazement. I fell asleep in the car and woke to a foghorn.

We drove off the boat and onto (is)land. The difference between the electric, pulsating city where we were just a few short hours ago compared to the undeveloped and rural island we were now driving through was drastic. We noticed a popular look on the area's youth that we would soon dub "the Canadian pimp daddy": wife-beater tank top, mesh soccer shorts, and cowboy boots. We had heard this part of the world inherits America's fashion trends 10 years too late, but I couldn't remember ever having a closet-full of Umbro's and spurs. We passed tiny fishing villages, the occasional hitch-hiker, and even a small casino. We drove along a windy highway that traced the shoreline of the island, but only offered an occasional peek at the vast ocean when the thick cover of trees would part just long enough for the sun to catch the blue water and shoot a sparkle back in our direction.

From the time we had left Sacramento, we had had no communication with Darren's family, who presumably were one day ahead and waiting for us at the campsite. It's a marvel to think how smoothly things had gone without the modern convenience of a cell phone. But alas, we had finally arrived in Bowser. And as we pulled off the main road and slowly winded our way down a gravel road we could make out a campsite. Darren's family had indeed arrived and set up shop. Our campsite was perched on a narrow strip of grass, fifty yards long and ten yards wide, bordered by thorny wild blackberry bushes before giving way to a steep embankment to the West which led straight to Deep Bay. We would sleep with the tent door open and gaze out across hundreds of miles of shimmering ocean and undisturbed wildlife.

Mornings were spent fishing, either with Uncle Skip on his three-man dingy, or with Grandpa Don on his 20-foot sport fishing boat. Although the luxury and comfort of Grandpa's boat was nice, nothing could compare to the thrill and excitement of being tossed around in the open sea as wave after frigid wave crashed into and over the side of Skip's dingy. The laughter kept us warm as we marvelled at how skillfully and aggressively Skip would take on each approaching wave, cutting through each one as if it were a personal grudge match.

We would eventually drop anchor near a rocky coastline or small jutting island. We used large metal lures tied to 35 lb test lines, and plumbed the bottom of the ocean for bites from prehistoric fish. Our targets were ling cod, but our lures didn't discriminate. As soon as we felt a bite, we were locked in for an exhilarating battle no matter what the fish at the other end might be. Sometimes it would take fifteen minutes before finally wrestling a twenty pound cod into the boat. Other times it would take less than one minute to reel the pesky sea cucumber aboard. And though they would always meet their fate in the form of needle-nosed pliers through their skull, the spiny dogfish shark was always the best fight. It didn't take long before we knew exactly what we had on our line, 50 feet below the surface, based solely on the amount of tension and fight we felt through our rods.

The most memorable experience of the three summers on that magical island came towards the end of our final trip. I was on Grandpa Don's boat with Grandpa, Darren, and Darren's fearless younger brother Ryan, when we were suddenly surrounded by a pod of killer whales. They were bigger than life itself and I was very aware of how small our boat was. They seemed to be circling our puny vessel, dorsal fins skyward, occasionally showering us with their blowholes. A tail fin would slap the water and send a thunderous echo across the bay. The four of us on the boat were speechless, powerless. I remember promising myself to never forget this moment, and so I didn't. I took a deep breath and inhaled the air (I can still smell it). I relished in the cool sea air on my skin. I embraced the chills in my spine and the horizontal hair on my neck. I watched with dilated pupils as the majestic mammals thrashed against a backdrop of emerald green and towering pines that were older than time. I felt it; all of it. I was alive. And I knew that in a life filled with so many trite moments, so many un-captured opportunities, and so few carpes to my diems, that I was fully entrenched in that moment; that perhaps for one minute, I was the most alive person in the world, and then the whales submerged themselves and never resurfaced.

It seems fitting that we never went back to Bowser, or took another ferry into Nanaimo. Nothing could have matched my last memory there. As the great clock ticks by and I get older, I'm all too aware of the dwindling amount of time I have to create unforgettable moments, and so it's comforting to have so many, stored and easily accessible, that I can relive whenever I want. Nanai-no-more.

The Last Weekend of Summer

2009-09-05T13:25:00.000-04:00

Look closer. Closer, still. See it? YES, there it is! It's the fine line between soulful art and horrific comedy, and we were sitting right on it.

John Legend and India Arie came to Raley Field last night, right here in Sac, and Sierra and I were there for it. Unfortunately, so was the wounded mastodon sitting behind us. She and her group of laryngitis-laden dingoes knew every word to every song, and they weren't afraid to use them. Their collective yelping was an assault on our aural orifices, and established very clearly the line between the beautiful music coming from the stage and the deranged mating call coming from behind us. Section 114, Row 18 was the border town perched precariously between Chaos and Theory.

And so even though the women behind us were a distraction at times, it's often these kind of things that prove to make a special night all the more memorable. After all, it was a night to remember, as we continued to celebrate Sierra's birthday under a full moon which illuminated the sky of the last weekend of an unforgettable summer.

Have a non-laborious weekend, my Hegemaniacs!

2009-08-01T12:16:00.000-04:00

Basically, Funny People is the movie I've wanted to write my entire life. It's funny, yes, but it also deals with the kind of existential brain candy that makes my pants warm, like mortality, love, friendship, success, failure, and dick jokes.

Funny People is the best movie I've seen in years, possibly this decade. I give it my highest rating: the double gunflex with crossed party horns. Take that, Oscar, you golden-ass bitch.

Marathons And Booze

2009-07-30T15:56:00.000-04:00

Welp, my Bro's a machine. He finished his third marathon last weekend in San Francisco, and is showing no signs of slowing down.

Of course, the only reason he was able to power through to the finish line was because of the great seductive powers of the mobile party cooler which awaited him.

After the race, a large group of us, including Hegemaniacs Cardizzel and Sauce, rendezvoused at Zeitgeist for a long day of drinking in the sun. Sauce was hassled by the Man for an attempted moonshine smuggling, the Tamale Lady delivered the goods, and my cro-magnon forehead was burnt to a crisp.

Congrats, Broseph, for another remarkable finishing time on a very tough course! It's always a memorable few days every time you and Jen make it to the West side. And for the rest of you, we've got some more kickin'-it to do before summer's over. Holler at a brotha!

UltraMarathon Man Wants A Piece

2009-07-30T15:39:00.000-04:00

I wrote a while back about Dean Karnazes, the ultramarathon man who is an inspiration to me and hundreds of thousands of other runners. The guy's a stud of Herculean ilk, and as my Bro Bro discovered first hand, he wants of piece of yours truly...

You got it, DK, next time I will come run with you. And you'd better bring your shiny hat.

Fireworks In Tahoe

2009-07-07T12:37:00.000-04:00

Sure, we got to kick back on the dock and watch the sky explode and crackle in a menagerie of brilliant colors as America celebrated her Independence, but the real fireworks came the following morning when Matey strapped on his Body Glove.

And if stretchy quarter-length Neoprene one-pieces don't make you stand up and sing "God bless America," then maybe it's time for you to grab a cup of tea, extend your pinkie finger, powder up your wig, and hop on the next double-decker bus right back to England, you red-coated powder puff, 'cause this is the Land of the Free, god damn it, and we wear little wetsuits here! (Finger guns pointed skyward.) Pew Pew!

And as always in Tahoe, Chase spent the majority of her weekend retrieving sticks from the lake and terrorizing chipmunks. She's such a good little aqua lamb. She wasn't the only one doing the swimming though...

If you look closely at the below picture, you can see Sauce Man falling out of what appears to be the sky, but it's actually a spinning front flip off the cliff of the Emerald Bay island. In this instance, he became a flying Saucer. Sorry.

As tends to happen when a weekend is filled with non-stop fun and excitement, the camera wasn't clicking nearly enough. My apologies for that, but rest assured, we had a dock-partying, speed-boating, inebriated Scrab-playing, burnt BBQ-chickening, Merlin robe-wearing good time!

Life dominates when you surround yourself with great friends, and with Sierra, Matey, Sauce, Steph, Austen, Evan, Carde, and Nikki all in attendance, we dominated the Lake Tahoe basin.

Hope your Fourth was just as Hege-monious!

Happy Birthday, Me!

2009-07-02T14:17:00.000-04:00

Along with being Canada Day, the half-year mark, Pamela Anderson's birthday, and Stephanie from Full House's birthday, it was also my special day. And Sierra made me feel like the luckiest dude on the planet.

After surprising me two weeks ago with a sweet Japanese road bicycle, I told she'd already done too much. But she came through again last night by hookin' me up with some long overdue new sandals and what is possibly the best shirt I have ever owned in my life. Then it was off to dinner at Taylor's Kitchen.

We were seated outside in their very European-style alley, and had the night to ourselves (with the exception of the pigeon who shit on us). I ordered the New York steak coupled with a delicious Cabernet, while Sierra had a chilled shrimp soup, a succulent pork chop, and a tasty Syrah. We shared a ridiculous lemon cooler for desert. Damn, I love food.

And so, I'm officially 29 years-old. Crazy yes, but I've never been happier in all my years. While I still consider myself spontaneous-- ready to do anything at the drop of a hat-- I'm loving the rhythm of life that Sierra and I have settled into. We leave for Lake Tahoe tonight, and get to spend the next three days wakeboarding, tanning, reading, swimming, Scrab-ing, and laughing with Matey, Sauce, Steph, and Carde.

Have an awesome Fourth!

Shitballs

2009-07-02T14:13:00.000-04:00

Chase pooped on her favorite toy the other day. She was inconsolable.