My new slogan. Flickr style.

Writing.

To say my work is trite, unresearched, and redundant is a gross understatement. It's an insult to authors who write trite, unresearched, and redundant literature. I mean, let's get real. They say that if you put a million monkies in a room with typewriters they'll eventually crank out Hamlet. In contrast, I can barely turn out a legible shopping list for only myself to read. To add insult to injury, I claim myself to be a writer. Take that, Kerouac! He wrote some of the most thought provoking works of last century and English was his second language. Second! So where do I get off? I write lame essays about cat feces and my pop culture political beliefs. I'm about as politically minded as Dennis Rodman is fashion aware. See how out of date I am, I just used a Dennis Rodman joke! No one's heard his name since 97!

After I spend about two minutes writing a "piece" (piece of what you may be asking yourself), I insist on sending it to everyone I know in hopes of a pat on the back, like some dog who wants to be loved by his negligant master. Not to say my friends are negligant, they just encourage me. Which leads me to believe they're part of the problem. Like when a teacher tells the kid who eats glue that his macaroni sculpture of a pile of macaroni is "original and daring" he'll continue to do feeble-minded things, like making sculptures out of macaroni. I could take the easy way out and say I write for my own benefit, but that's not true. I know how dumb I am and refuse to read from an author who is such a waste of my time. I could simply stop writing, but that'd give me too much free time, as writing is my day job. I'd end up like that kid from the analogy, gluing piles of macaroni into bigger piles of macaroni and waiting for the teacher to tell me that I'm a prodigy. (This analogy works really well, simply replace "macaroni" with "shit" and it immediatly applies to writing. Any writer would have to agree.)

Maybe it's not my fault at all, maybe it's the fault of writers in general. Where do they get off? Isn't writing a book the most narcisistic thing to do? Someone gets a little idea in their head like "Wouldn't it be neat if a big dog went crazy and started killing people in Maine!?" or "My name's Bill Clinton and I was the President of the United States of America!" and jots it down on paper, expecting people to be interested enough in it to spend hours of their lives to sit and read about it. What assholes! I think we've got better things to do, like make macaroni sculptures and fish for compliments. Assholes!

What's black, white, and pink all over? (Not a newspaper)

A recent bulletin I saw:

Our local newspaper has decided they will not print information on the PRIDE club, cause it is not a club on the school campus. This is the decision from the editor who is very homophobic--he just doesn't want any good coverage to help influence minds out here. I know this for sure cause Denise Etheridge, who is very symphatic to our cause, told me that was the editor's decision. She was going to do a story about PRIDE, but he told her to not bother.

White County Ga.


My Response to it:

I'm local and very homophobic. But that's because there was a huge notice in the paper a few months ago that said if you supported any kind of "gaying," as they called it, that you wouldn't be allowed to ever masturbate to John Wayne movies and/or eat chicken again. Dude, I hate chicken, but I'll never give up the Duke. Not ever.

Peace, Love, & Afro-Picks,

- Eric "Ray Gights" Baehr.

Babes (I dig em)

Here's a nugget of drunken idiotics, compliments of myself and my old friend Noah.

I Dig Babes

It hails from 1999 (I think) and it contains Sexual Situations (Gasp!)

Last night.

Yeah, last night Pete's momma called me at like 2:30 in the morning and told me the only time I'd ever seen 90210 was on a scale.


Snap!


Then she called again twenty minutes later and said, "Let's get off the mommas, I just got off yours."


Double snap!


Damn, Pete. Your mom's rude as all Hell, Man.

Moustache

Thursady night, typically I'm sitting at the desk, answering letters to my slews of friends. Tonight wasn't straying too far from that ideal, at the moment I was sipping a cup of Foglifter, slowly dragging a Camel Light, and listening to some "classic rock" station (which was being drowned out by my dog, Odie's, constant barrage of panting), all the whilst answering an letter from my friend Justin regarding the current state of politics in California when I first noticed the smell.

The smell had a rustic, vinegar twinge to it and I couldn't help but notice the familiarity of it. It smelled, to be blunt, like shit. Honest-to-God shit. When my inner monologue stated, "Something smells like shit," it wasn't trying to be cute with a metaphor, it was speaking technically, I really was smelling shit. Now started the game that every pet owner secretly despises (no matter how much they love their fluffy little schnookums and all the cute faces they make, the fact that a foul smelling substance drops out of their cute, fluffy little orifices is a different story completely), which is looking for the ever-elusive treasure pile of feces.

I stood up, beginning my reluctant quest, and looked at the culprits. There were three, all present and accounted for, yet none had the look of guilt that usually follows a carpet bound bowel movement. GiGi, the disgustingly adorable, yet Hitleresque Dachshund was fast asleep, wheezing in deranged content. Bear, the oafish, well mannered Black Lab was incredibly busy licking it's own privates, oblivious to the fact I was staring it down with a look of deranged disgust in my eyes. Odie, the easy going, impossibly ignorant Cocker Spaniel had a look of prime satisfaction planted on his face, like he'd just eaten a six pound, choice cut of beef (Odie always had this look about him, as we suspected he was borderline retarded). Seeing as it was either them or me causing the stench, and being fairly certain it wasn't me, I drew the conclusion the crime had taken place in another room. In a lazy haste, I went to searching for my unglamorous fate, a simple pile of dog shit that I, as finder, would get the privilege of cleaning up with the patented tools of the trade, some paper towels, my left hand, and a few choice swear words. Who's the lucky boy? Eric is! Eric is!

My quest into the sitting room turned up nothing aside from more confusion and the fear that there might be a sneaker sized loaf soaking into my bedroom carpet. Assuming the worst, I ventured in to find nothing but Tigger, our housecat starring at me like I was an asylum escapee. It was at this point I made the "Eureka!" expression, and apparently made one hell of a noise, as the cat panicked and ran out of the room with me hot on it's tail. The cat! The cat had done the deed, this was good, as the cat used it's litter box with enthusiastic diligence, always being considerate and not just squatting on the floor. I ran to the litter box, confident the cause of the smell would make itself known, almost stepping on the cat in the process. I arrived at the box, smiling, knowing I'd solved my mystery, only to find it empty.

Damn.

Where in the hell was the smell coming from? It was now I seriously started thinking it might be me, but then I noticed it. It looked like a sand storm had taken place in the ironing room, an evil and unforgiving sandstorm, a sandstorm that seemed to be moving due west, the direction of the initial discovery. I followed the trail of cat sand into the office to solemnly see the trail end abruptly, at the feet of my wonderfully brain-dead Cocker Spaniel. It was then that all the facts made themselves perfectly clear. The contented look, the smell, the heavy breathing, the fact that the dog is a plain moron, yet outside of all of these tidbits of information, one thing out spoke them all, his face. All's I could think about were those popular milk ads in magazines, the ones were some random celebrity has a milk moustache and there's some lame message about milk being good for your bones, only in this case, the celebrity was a dimwitted Cocker Spaniel named Odie, the milk was replaced by kitty litter, and the message was that my dog had recently eaten cat shit. Not knowing how to react to this, I simply sat back down and continued writing my letter, only now my coffee wasn't exactly appetizing and the donut I'd planned to eat was thrown to the dogs (one of which was full). There wasn't much to do or say to this, only "Got Litter?"

My Special Gal.

The girl was amazing. If my love for anything was a grain of sand, my love for her was an infinity of deserts. I'd known her since I was a child, I'd loved her since I first laid my eyes upon her sweet, warm face. I'd never had the courage to tell her how I felt, not even to try to hold her hand while we strolled the trails when we were young. But finally, 17 years later, I finally gathered the muster and asked her out to dinner. To my astonishment and delight, she accepted!

Excited more than I'd ever been, I made reservations at the finest restaurant in town, paying a "appreciatory fee" to ensure my getting the best table in the fine establishment. I ordered a dozen Norwegian roses, which cost me a week's pay instantly. This was to be the most important night of my life, I was to ask her the question that had burned inside of me for over twenty years.

Finally the night arrived, I picked her up promptly and we arrived at the restaurant to enjoy an elegent meal and indulge in eachother's company. We ordered a bottle of vintage red wine, followed by a wonderful meal of delicacies unknown to the common man. We danced, we laughed, we had mind-blowing conversations about everything possible. This date was to be the basis to compare all dates in the future, it was absolutely perfect.

Then, after cocktails and a nice creme brulee', I worked up the gumption to ask her the question I'd tormented myself with for years. I leaned in, stroked her cheek ever so gently, and softly asked, "If I pay you, will you have sex with me?"

American I-Duh.

I just watched four thirty-something up-and-comers discuss the future of economics (within a 50 year spectrum) and then, all in unison, turn around and discuss American Idol with just as much (if not more) fervor. It was like watching some kind of Synchronized Retardation competition. I'm not saying it's bad to like American Idol, as I have my own love affair with brain-rotting television, but to be so charismatic about it is just frightening, especially when held in litmus with a topic that actually affects us like economics. I doubt that AIDS researchers have long, drawn out discussions on the creation of the disease and then suddenly shift into a heated conversation on which Darren was better on Bewitched (It was the first one), right?

Plan.

Starting soon, I want to, every two weeks, drive with a full tank of gas in any random direction and just see where I end up and take pictures of the trip. Is this a stupid idea? Probably, but it still sounds like a decent way to clear the head and get into some fun situations. Thoughts?

Water Go Down the Hole....

After having the drama factor brought to my attention recently (the blog being serious toned as of late) I'm just going to rant about bullshit for a minute or two.

1. Margarine, no matter how much it looks like or is made to taste like butter, is nothing close to actual butter by any stretch of imagination. It's yellow vaseline, that's all.

2. I have a man crush on Bauer. Don't fuck with Bauer or you'll be opening a can of "whupass" that is far stronger and more powerful than anything you've ever known.

3. Pez? Still rocks.

Lame, I know, but that's all I got for the time being. Hope all's well.

- E.

Ego Tripping at the Gates of Hell.

Ah, comments. How fun they can be. Recently, I was subjected to an anonymous assault via my commenting option here at the blog. This person was quite irate due to my short called "The Last Intervention of Christ" and as they chose to remain anonymous, I have decided to publicly address them. So, here goes…

Do you really know Gods great love? (Yes, I do. I’ve had numerous blessings in my life and I certainly don’t take credit for them) You may not have looked into very far. (What?)

In the beginning God created us to live forever in paradise with him without having to worry about. (First off, you write like a fifth grader or Bush’s speechwriting staff. I think you’re trying to say that God created us to be an Utopian ant farm? Again, what?) His intentions were to raise us as his daughters and sons, to keep us safe and be happy with him forever. (Ok.) Then one day Satan tempted Eve in the Garden to eat of the tree of knowledge that God told her not to eat from. (Ok, this we know) When Eve fail into temptation she tricked Adam into it also. In the afternoon when God was walking through the garden to be with them he called their names. They were afraid of God because they disobeyed him. (Also due to the fact that they were naked. They ate from the tree of knowledge, remember? They hadn’t known what "naked" was and that they should be ashamed until…) God sent them out of the garden because of what they did. God cared so much for them he even made them clothes out of animal skin where they wouldn't be embarassed. (Beat ya to it, Fun boy) When that happened God had a plan to get them back to him. Over the years their were prophecies about Jesus coming into the world save his people. (Are you a Sunday School teacher?)

God planted the seed of the Holy spirit in Mary's womb, who was Lord Jesus Christ, to be born. (Who? Lord Who Christ? I’m shaky on the Bible, but I don’t recall this "Jesus" cat ever being mentioned) God was pleased with Mary that's why he chose her to be a messenger for the Lord. Jesus grew up living without sin and went through everything that a person goes through and overcame it for us. (Why are you telling me this?) Jesus preached the Gospel over several years. Then Judas betrayed him, one of his 12 deciples. (Nice spelling there) In the last 12 hours of his life he was whipped, beaten, cursed at, eyes gauged out, was humiliated, and much more just to give us the opportunity to be in heaven with him again. (So you saw that Mel Gibson movie too, eh? Man, it was only 12 hours long? Are you sure? It seemed to go at least 17 to me) After all of the pain he went through for us they hung him up on a cross and tempted him saying," If your the son of God come down off the cross then we'll believe you!" (What dicks!) When he died that afternoon he went down to the center of the Earth and got the keys to the gates of hell where he will be the one to judge and tell who can come into God's kingdom. (After doing a search for "Jesus, Hell, Keys" on Bibleresource.com and nothing showed up linking them, I kind of have to think that story has been told a few times too many secondhand) When Jesus resurected from the grave he lived n Earth for a month and a half with his deciples and follwers teaching and preaching. (You need a dictionary, Pal) When he left, he sent the holy ghost, which is Jesus Christ's spirit, as the comforter for his people. (I have a nice comforter. It’s denim)

To sum up all of this up God loved us so much that he came down to Earth lived our (a) life without sin and died as the perfect sacrafice (spelling again) for all of our sins just to give (us) the opportunity to be with him. He would do all of this for even one person if they fell away from him and the rest were still in heaven. (What a stand up guy!) That is how much God loves us. (That’s a given, Champ)

Jesus' blood was represented by wine in the last supper and the bread represented his body. That is why during the last supper he told them drink this cup in rememberence (spelling) of me. He prophecied to his deciples about his death that would take place, and he also told them that he was going to rebuild the temple in three days. (You misspell almost every key word having to do with your faith. And why are you telling me this?) What he meant by the temple is that when he died on the cross as a perfect sacrafice (spelling, yet once a gain. For the love of Christ!) he would then have control over who went to heaven or hell. Before jesus (You really should capitalize that) died the devil had everybody already condemned to hell. The reason why everybody was already condemned to hell is that since the fall of Adam and Eve mankind became born with a sinful nature. Due to that, we beacme born of the devil and not of God anymore. (Yeah, I’ve met a lot of kids that seem a lot more devil than heavenly, feel me?) That is why when you get saved you become born again and past is washed away. (Irish Spring also works well for that.)

How fun! And to you, dear martyr, I chose the color red just to piss you off. I have no idea why your strategy was to recite bible stories to me when your main problem was that I turned Christ into a fictitious drunk that gets a chuckle out of himself when he takes his own name in vain. Granted, the piece isn't exactly kosher (I bet you really hate that term), but I didn't intend it to be. If you think I'm some kind of sacrilegious heathen, you'd be wrong. I love God, I truly do. I just hate the people like you in his fan club that like to push their opinions on something as personal as religious faith onto every person you come in contact with that has a different outlook than you. Given, you'd probably aimlessly recite the story of Noah and the ark when taken to the task of forming an opinion on tax reform, but I digress. Stand up for your beliefs, by all means. But know you're standing up for a belief system that persecutes homosexuals and people that touch footballs (the pig skin thing comes from Deuteronomy 14:8 in case you were wondering) yet has no qualms with fathers selling their daughters into slavery (Exodus 21:7). And allow to me to also say this, if you're going to pop onto someone's blog and comment on things, at least have the balls to put your name on them. Get some backbone, Man. I mean Jesus has your back, right? Lastly, if you get all huffy and want to vent to this, feel free, just try not to go into a lame retelling of the Cain and Abel story or some shit like that, as I already know it. Your breath would be better spent blowing yourself.

Shortly after my last post, this happened...

 
 

Whoops!

So I was driving down a dark, empty road when I suddenly hit a homeless woman with my Jetta (which weighs around 2 tons) while I was going 95 mph (which is fast).

I pulled over, got out of my car, and looked at her crumpled, spasming body. As I sat there, watching her die a slow and (what looked to be) horribly painful death, I had but one, simple thought.

"I bet this bitch wishes I had a cell phone."

Savannah.

Ah, three days, two nights in Georgia's oldest city. Savannah, if you've never been there, is like New Orleans but as of late a lot dryer and no one's ever shot Ray Davies there (to my knowledge). I did a lot by accomplishing nothing. Here's a few things I did, just to make you jealous:

1. I ate. And ate. And ate and ate and ate. Raw oysters, oysters rockefeller, escargot, duck patte', quail, asparagus quiche, tomato basil bisque, smoked salmon, pumpkin cheesecake, creole omelets, panne cotta gelato, beignets, etc. My palate was livin' larger than Biggie ever had it.

2. I drank. And drank. And drank and drank and drank. Bloody Maries and Sam Adams draft. That's not an incredibly exciting list, but I did drink a Sam Adams out of a coconut carved into a monkey head. The called it a "Monkey Nut" but I refuse to. Having a "monkey nut" sounds too much like something Sigourney Weaver may have done during the outtakes of "Gorillas in the Mist."

3. I took a lot of pictures, mostly involving me wearing a driver's cap and thinking I look cool.

4. I walked up 178 steps to the top of a lighthouse and then in one blinding second got terrified that my nephew was going to either fall off the ledge or accidentily push me off of it.

5. Spent 10 minutes getting a kite 400 ft into the beach sky only to spend the next hour getting it back down again. Remember, it was December 31st and I was barefoot on the Atlantic flying a kite. Nice way to end the year.

6. Went to two cemetaries and cleaned off what I believe may have been Johnny Mercer's Dad's grave.7. Got kissed by a good-looking newlywed bride.

8. Got asked for my autograph because someone thought I was Dane Cook.

9. Watched my nephew get life advice from a homeless man. Because, you know, no one knows the secret to success quite like a man who's pan handling for cigarettes and carrying around a guitar with no strings. His advice? "Join the military." Riiiight.

10. Had a blast.

Ok, that's my trip to Savannah in a nut shell. I'll post some pictures as soon as I can.

All my Bestestest,

- eric.