Twombly

Big America

2008-09-07T20:24:00.000-07:00

We all hear stories of children going missing. Just walk into any Wal-Mart and look at the, "Have You Seen This Child" board. There are quite a few of them. I am sure that most of those children have been victims, not of kidnappers or gangsters or terrorists, but of high-powered public toilets.

It is my opinion that public toilets are too powerful to the point of being dangerous. If a small child were to lose balance and fall in at the moment flushing occurred, the vortex would certainly be powerful enough to suck away an arm or other appendage, if not the entire child.

Ever since I was little, i have been afraid of public toilets. I know what they can do. Children aren't the only ones who need to exercise caution. Adults are still vulnerable. I am convinced that if you stare at a high-powered public toilet flushing, your eyes will be sucked out of your head and you will live in darkness forever. To be honest, I don't know what a high-powered toilet looks like when it's flushing. I don't want to risk it.

Using public toilets is, unfortunately, a necessity. If you have a bladder, you know how painfully true it is and I envy those with surgically implanted catheters. I could avoid the whole eye-sucking situation by not flushing at all, however, that is not an option. Maybe not flushing is an option for some, but not for me. The truth is, I am very possessive of my pee. My pee is for me and me alone. Not flushing the high-powered public toilet would mean that the next person who came along would see my pee. Dare I say meet my pee? It's mine and it would be even worse if that person saw me coming out of the stall and made the connection between my pee and me. They would know it was mine and then, depending on what kind of person they were, they might not bother to pre-flush and then proceed to pee into my pee and our pees would be one horrifying hybrid-pee. I would prefer my pee remain its very own unique self.

So, we have established that flushing can't be avoided. I prepare for flushing by first unlocking and opening the stall door. I do this to make it easier to escape the whirling vortex once the flush lever has been engaged. I position my foot right above the flush lever simultaneously stretching all my other valuable body parts toward the stall exit. Without looking, I press the lever with my foot and start running right away. I am proud to say I am 21 years old and have never experienced any issues with my personal flushing system.

Computer Song

2008-08-23T18:59:00.000-07:00

Written by Tyler Twombly
Tyler Twombly- Voice, Piano, Bass
Eric Strom- Drums

Ted

2008-08-22T03:38:00.000-07:00

When I was 8 I lived downstairs from a gay dancer named Ted. Ted owned the house, but lived in the unfinished attic. He did this so he could make more money by renting out the other two normal floors. No one wants to live in an unfinished attic. He had very thick, crazy black hair, a square jaw, Irish blue eyes, dimples, one earring and always seemed to have about 3 days worth of stubble.

My dealings with Ted were usually pleasant and slightly odd. One time he told me he had a present for me. I got really excited about this because 8 year old kids get really excited when you tell them they are going to get a present. He indicated, with his finger, the location of the present. He was pointing to the toilet. I didn’t think anything of the fact that this man, named Ted, said he had a present for me in the toilet. Eagerly, I went into the toilet only to find a giant poo floating in the bowl. That image is burned into my memory. I was as disappointed as his poo was formidable.

The house we lived in with Ted had a brick chimney which was covered in cement. Apparently, moisture had gotten between the cement and the bricks underneath and, over time, caused a significant air space to form. So, the end product was a brittle cement shell encasing the chimney. One day, I punctured the shell with a sharp rock, leaving a hole. After that, every time I walked by the hole I would break off another little piece of cement. I worked at it for some time in fact. I thought of it as an ongoing project. The hole in the chimney ended up being about a foot or two in diameter after about a year of consistent pecking. It was when the hole was discovered by Ted that, apparently, he told my mother I was a, “devil child.” Things went south with Ted after that.

Ted had many boyfriends, though I didn’t really make the connection that they were boyfriends then. I would often, before the chimney incident, go up to the attic to hang out with Ted and whoever else was up there. I always got a lot of attention from these men. I was a cute child I guess. One fellow took a liking to me, especially my ears. Maybe it was the simple fact that I had ears. I don’t know, but he was very nice. I just remember him talking about how much he loved ears. He said something like, “I don’t know like what it is about ears! I just love them! They are like so weird…I like to play with them. Can I play with your ears?” This seemed like a perfectly normal question to an 8 year old me, so I let him play with my ears. It was great! He played with my ears for about a half an hour, then I went back downstairs. My ears have never felt so amazing.

No One Said It Was Going To Be Pretty

2008-08-21T00:42:00.000-07:00

I am sweating like a pig. Especially my palms are sweating like pigs. It’s like I have two pigs instead of palms. I am in a terrible situation with this pigs-for-palms thing and I am having trouble focusing. I need to regain control of myself and fly my home-made person-propeller rocket like I know what I’m doing.

The rocket boosters are going to be igniting in less than ten seconds and I need to keep my hands from slipping off this joystick. I need some paper towels. My hands are like rivers. First they were like pigs and now they are like rivers. What good is a river when it is flowing through your palms? I like rivers though. In fact, I love rivers. Swimming in a river is one of my greatest joys in this world but, there is a time and a place for a river, and right now and in my palms is neither.

I am buckled in extremely tight though I can still reach under the seat with my right arm. I think there are some old Dunkin’ Donuts napkins under there (on one of my test drives of this thing, I took it to a couple fast-food places just for a hoot). Hey, there’s like a whole stack under here! Okay, smooth sailing from now on. Thank you Dunkin’ Donuts!

With my sweating issue is taken care of, I can focus on flying this piece of crap rocket I put together using stolen computer parts from my job at Best Buy. Why am I in this thing that is, in reality, nothing more than a glorified trash can? I remember. I have always wanted to go into space since I was a little boy.

I hear that a lot of people get really sick the first time they are weightless. I don’t think I’m going to get sick. The only thing that makes me sick is the sight of mucus. If space was filled with mucus, that would be a different story.

But space isn’t filled with mucus now is it? No, it is filled with planets and stars and probably aliens. Hopefully the aliens aren’t covered in mucus like they always seem to be when I see them in movies. What a terrible way to meet someone. “Hey nice to meet you Mr. Alien sir!” followed by uncontrollable barfing. He would probably assume all humans were like that and probably think I didn’t like him and then decide to blow up my planet.

Now I am really starting to worry about this. What if I do actually meet an alien? What if he is covered in boogers? Then again, why would he not be covered in boogers? Space is really cold and dry. I’m sure a nice thick layer of mucus would help trap both heat and moisture. I will just have to deal with that situation when it comes up and if he blows up my planet then I will have to deal with that too. Maybe after he blows up my planet, he will feel bad for me and let me sleep on his sofa.

(Rocket explodes and mucus-hater man dies in a horrific fire because Tyler doesn’t know where this is going)

Riding a Moped

2008-08-16T09:57:00.000-07:00

My relationship with teenagers is similar to the relationship between motorcycles and mopeds. Let us assume that I am a motorcycle and jackass teenagers, who are way cooler than I could ever have been in high school, are mopeds.

Before we get into it, a moped is like a bicycle on steroids, or, if you prefer, a motorcycle that has just begun puberty. Whichever way you want to look at it is fine with me. Glass half full. Glass half empty. The following is a fictional scenario.

A motorcycle is just hanging out and this moped, not looking where he is going, walks right into the motorcycle. The moped doesn’t apologize for this or even look at the motorcycle. He proceeds on as if nothing happened. The motorcycle is offended and says to the moped, “Hey kid! You walked right into me. Who taught you your manners?” The moped whips around and says, “Listen grandpa, if you got a problem we can throw down right here!” The motorcycle knows he is larger and more developed than this little moped, but the moped is already unbuttoning his shirt and seems to be aggressively flexing his muscles.

Under normal circumstances the motorcycle wouldn’t view this little moped as a threat, but this display of testosterone on behalf of the moped is instilling a serious sense of fear in the motorcycle. The Motorcycle says to the kid, “Sorry! Jee whiz! I…I…” and the moped says, “That’s right grandpa!” buttons his shirt and walks away. The moped doesn’t know he himself is just a scrawny kid. He is afraid of nothing. That is why he is so dangerous. He is a moped.

By riding a moped, I feel like I am cool enough to hold my own among all the world’s jackass teenagers. In my head, I have captured a high school kid and now I ride him.

Faces on Pages

2008-08-14T11:14:00.000-07:00

Facebook makes it possible, with almost no muscle movement at all, to “stay connected” with everyone you ever met in your entire life. Once you friend someone, you can see what they are doing at all times of the day, look at pictures of them and send them messages. Another word for this kind of staying connected is stalking. On Facebook, it seems perfectly fine and acceptable to become friends with an ex. At least, in my experience it is. In the world before Facebook, like way back in 2002, people had their relationships and then those relationships ended. If it was at all feasible, the people involved would never see each other again. There are, of course, some very reasonable exceptions. I realize that, but now, in the world of Facebook, people are never forgotten. Luckily, your terrible relationship can’t get its own account and friend you at two in the morning like your ex just did yesterday. Of course, when your ex friends you at two in the morning, your relationship is also friending you. Ever heard of emotional baggage? Facebook is all about emotional baggage.

I am guilty of being friends, on Facebook, with just about everyone with whom I ever dated or even made out. It’s not an astonishingly long list for me and no real correspondence or exploring friendship stuff has occurred. It is tempting. I can see exactly which of them are logged in at any given moment. The chat box should be called the Exes-Available-to-Chat-About-the-Good-Times box. It makes a person feel a little too connected.

Let us separate the ex from the relationship with the ex. Just like taking the peanut butter out from a peanut butter sandwich. Let us deal solely with the peanut butter. Imagine my former relationship as a ghost-like being that can type. Imagine it having high-speed internet access too. If my terrible former relationship could get a Facebook account it might call itself something androgynous and slightly sketchy like Pat or Jan. I like Jan.

Okay! So Jan, my terrible former relationship, gets an account and friends me on the book. The request would most certainly include one of those personal messages. It would read like,

“Tyler!!!!!! I was just snooping around Facebook and thought it would be so nice to re-connect. So anyway, I see you are with Pat now. That’s great. I am really happy for you. Add me and we’ll chat sometime.

Love,

Jan (The Terrible Relationship)"

In my head, the voice of Jan is way too happy and simply too loud. Jan’s intonation has so much variation it is frightening. I remember Jan, and Jan certainly was not that happy. It’s some kind of ploy to appear totally at peace with the way things turned out. There is something fishy about all this. Why does Jan want to chat? What does Jan hope to get out of that? Why did my former relationship call itself Jan? There are so many unanswered questions.

Other than that whole uncomfortable situation which could arise, Facebook is pretty super. I have stayed in contact with lots of great people and it’s also free advertising for my blog. If I didn’t have Facebook I would have to actually talk to people and tell them with my mouth to visit my blog. I’m sure a paper and pen would be involved. I would be talking to someone I don’t know that well and I would mention I had a blog and that they should read it. I would say,

“Yeah, I’ve got a blog. You should read it. The URL is tylertwomblysblog.blogspot.com. Kind of long I know. It feels like you are chewing on a mouthful of kielbasa when you say it eh? Ha!” trying to be funny.

“Tyler’s what? Blog? What’s a blog? Is there an apostrophe in there somewhere?”

“Well, let me write it down for you. Do you have a piece of paper and a pen?”

“No…sorry. Maybe I can remember it. What was it again?”

“No, let me write it down. It will only take a quick second”

“No no no. That’s really fine. What was it again?”

“You just wait here. I am going to go ask that guy if he has some paper and a pen."

“Um…”

They would feel obligated to wait for me, I would feel more desperate as it took longer to find a pen, and we would both feel like idiots for engaging in such a ridiculous game. People don’t want to make a huge effort and fill their pockets with gas station receipts with the URL of some random dude’s blog scribbled on the back. The existence of Facebook ensures that the above hypothetical situation never occurs. Facebook makes things more awkward in some situations and less awkward in others. If things weren’t awkward sometimes, what would I write about? Cheers to Facebook.

Not a Wizard

2008-08-07T14:02:00.000-07:00

I have the dorkiest hobby in the world. I am a magician although I prefer to say simply that I do or perform magic. The term magician makes me uncomfortable because I feel like when I say, “My name is Tyler and I am a magician,” I am actually saying, “My name is Tyler and I am a real-life wizard.” It feels like that, it truly does. I tell people I am a magician anyway because there is no other simple term to describe what I do. I am certainly not going to call myself an “Illusionist” like that guy on that Arrested Development show that’s really funny, and that everyone always mentions when I tell them I am a magician.

Maybe I should tell people I am a real-wizard. The down side is they would probably want some proof. And who could blame them? One time I did a magic trick for this guy and after it was done he told me he was a wizard. I don’t know what that was about, but I made an excuse to leave instead of continuing down that bizarre road filled with cute anecdotes of when his wizard staff accidentally misfired.

I tell people I am a magician because wizards and magicians do different things. Wizards make buildings explode, part the seas, travel between parallel planes of existence and, if they happen to be an evil wizard, make potions with the organs of small children. You know, really big and scary stuff that, if you saw it, you would never be the same. Magicians do things along the lines of cutting pieces of string and magically healing them, turning one spongy red ball thing into two spongy red ball things, vanishing a pretty lady, and if they happen to be an evil magician, making some poor bloke feel stupid because he has his selected card stuck to his butt and he doesn’t see it but, everyone else in the audience sees it including this really pretty and nice girl who, after weeks of phone tag, finally took him up on his offer for a “classy night of good-old-fashioned theater.” You know, impractical stuff. And now you can understand why I can’t call myself a wizard.

However, today’s definition of magician is changing due to all these crazy guys on TV. They promote themselves less like magicians and more like wizards. One of these guys in particular, and they are all guys I might add, does things like walking on water. He does this at some public swimming pool in Las Vegas with camera shots looking down at his feet and you can actually see people swimming under him. He also floats from rooftop to rooftop while holding his arms out like Jesus. What is he trying to say there? If you are thinking, “I am a Wizard,” you are probably correct. You see, if I did it, I would do it differently.

If I were to float from building to building, I would do it in the style of Peter Pan. I have always been more a fan of Peter Pan than Jesus, personally. I mean, he flies by thinking happy thoughts. That’s really awesome! Anyway, I would place one hand on my hip, point one finger to the sky, bend my right leg up like Captain Morgan, point my toes like a ballerina, and look in the direction of my desired destination and fly around that way. Much, much cooler than the former Jesus approach.

The walking on water thing is just too cheesy and I wouldn’t do it…probably. Well, maybe I would do it but I might take more of a Slip n’ Slide-approach, sliding across an Olympic sized swimming pool on my stomach like some kind of super seal or jet ski. Maybe I would even take it one step further and commute this way. A real wizard or genius wouldn’t just walk across some water for fun. He might on a date or something, but I’m talking about the day to day wizard life. You know, how do you get from A to B? The answer is simple if you live near a large body of water. If I needed to get from here to Normandy France, I would just Slip n’ Slide on over, and in the process maybe book a couple kids parties from the publicity.

French Bread and Fine Wine

2008-08-06T12:21:00.000-07:00

Wow! I feel really oily. I am drinking coffee finally at 2:30 in the afternoon. Man, this cup of coffee tastes so god damned good for some reason. I did a really good job with it. It has just enough bite to it and just enough sweetness. Hmm, kiss and bite.

Eric and I just went to the store and did some grocery shopping. The bulk of our purchases consisted of various bread products like bagels, sliced bread, English muffins, and tortilla wraps. That’s a lot of carbs right there. I like to view myself as somewhat of a domestic or “sensitive guy who likes to cook and drink red wine with steak,” but this is not as true as I would like to believe. Eric’s bachelor-style living is definitely rubbing off on me. He lives on Arnold brand sliced bread, Colombo brand strawberry yogurt, Stop and Shop brand peanut butter, Stop and Shop brand cream cheese, Thomas’ brand bagels and English muffins. That is it. Maybe he’ll get a special thing once in a while like a gallon of store brand orange juice but not much else. I am surprised his teeth or his eyes haven’t fallen out due to malnutrition. When we are in the store and I am thinking about buying a loaf of French bread and some cheese, he will tell me, “It’s so expensive…but buy it if you want.” The bread is a little expensive. I would still really like to have some good bread and cheese. What I need is an enabler who will see me looking at the bread and cheese and say, “Oh, gosh! That would be so delightful to sit down with a plate of cheese and bread tonight just like they do in France. Oh! And we should get a bottle of Rosé to go with it too!” They would probably throw in a couple witty French phrases I wouldn’t understand. That is the kind of shopping friend I want because I am totally at the mercy of whoever I am with.

Floors, Socks and Best Friends

2008-08-05T18:25:00.000-07:00

It is important to vacuum the floor of your home thoroughly because dust is harmful to your health and no one likes to get little pieces of dirt and garbage stuck to their feet when they decide to go barefoot. I know a floor is clean when I can walk barefoot and my feet stay clean and pink on the underside. Some people, like my roommate, don’t vacuum or sweep. Instead they just wear socks all the time. This, from what I understand, lowers his ability to detect dirt and grime. My roommate and I both perceive a clean floor exists beneath our feet. The difference between us is that one of us is delusional and the other is not. Somehow I see through my roommate’s mental illness and love him anyway.

You see, we have different value systems he and I. I value the freedom of un-socked feet. Feeling the air breeze between my toes is very pleasurable to me. Somewhere in my childhood I remember a situation where taking off my shoes and socks was a great privilege. I think the public school system is responsible for that because they make the kids keep their socks on even if it’s nap time or story time or whatever. They will let you take your shoes off on the carpet sometimes but, never both shoes and socks. I don’t know what it was like in your school system. Maybe you went to some hippie private school and they let you run around naked. Anyway, in that case, I guess my love of bare feet is some form of rebellion.

Eric values freedom from having to sweep or vacuum more than he values freedom from socks. When I asked him, “Don’t you want to let your feet breath?” he said simply, “I don’t really care about that.” It took me a couple days to finally understand how a human being might possibly not care if their foot was straight jacketed by a sock.

I thought about this for a long time before I realized that Eric grew up on a farm. I am not saying he is a hillbilly or anything. I am saying that when he was a kid, he probably ran around barefoot all the time and he probably took it for granted. He probably couldn’t wait to come back into the house after stomping on cow pies all day and put on a nice clean pair of socks. Maybe they were even warm socks right out of the dryer. Hopefully, he would wash his feet before applying the socks.

I can now go forth in my friendship with Eric with a sense of understanding.

Blog?

2008-08-05T00:34:00.000-07:00

What is it to “blog?” Does it count as blogging if you are just changing the background color of your blog? I mean, ‘cause if that counts, I’ve been Blogging all day. It is now 3:30am and here I am still blogging away at my blog. Blogging is a wonderful way of expression I am finding.

Spinach Story

2008-08-04T21:50:00.000-07:00

Enjoy some computer-generated bouncing balls and talk about spinach. Spinach is probably my favorite vegetable.

Notes:

Just so you know, YouTube compresses the audio in things you upload. It does stuff to your video too but, I don't know anything about that. Compression makes the quiet parts louder and the loud parts quieter so that in the end the audio has less variation in volume. Normally, I would not mind but, YouTube compresses the hell out of everything and it resulted in my audio sounding like poop.

You see, when I originally made this video as my final project for my computer animation class I thought it would be really great to mix the sound in the video really loud so no one would miss a word. I also compressed the audio myself so when YouTube came along, weird stuff happened that I can't explain even now.

How I Drink Coffee

2008-07-24T19:38:00.000-07:00

First I pour the black coffee into a mug. Then I add the sugar. I don’t know exactly how much sugar I use but, I know it is not enough until I can see that the surface of the liquid has visibly risen a quarter of an inch. I don’t use cream or milk. I use half and half. My mother uses it so I blame her. I like my coffee really light. When I have achieved the correct color the coffee ends up being two thirds coffee and one third half and half. That makes it a sixth pure cream I guess. Because of all this half and half, my coffee beverage is now only luke warm. Just the way I like it. I can drink it faster if it is room temperature. I drink it down enjoying every mouthful of sweet, creamy, heartburn and then go back for a second cup.

When I drink coffee in a social setting, however, I do it differently because I am embarrassed at the way I drink coffee. For instance, if sugar cubes are available at this coffee-drinking social event, I will take only two. If milk or cream is available then I will use just enough to lighten the color of the coffee slightly—a socially acceptable amount. If no cream or milk is readily available I will not inquire about its absence and drink my coffee black.

When ordering coffee at a café that has one of those self-serve milk and cream stations I will prepare the beverage as I normally would if I were alone but with a few modifications to the procedure or performance as I prefer to call it. It is a performance because I employ my skills in Acting in order to disguise the ludicrous amounts of sugar and cream I add to my beverage.

While at the beverage amendment area, I make sure, while pouring my sugar, to act as if the dispenser is clogged or defective. I shake it up and down over my cup, meanwhile spilling a generous helping of white granules into the coffee. I stop and stare at the dispenser with a puzzled look as if to say, “Gosh darn employees left this sugar dispenser out in a rain storm or something ‘cause this sugar is one stiff mass. No amount of shaking this veritable brick is going to do me any good.” I then repeat that same process—shake and look shake and look—a couple more times until I have added the desired amount of sugar to my coffee, in my mind, secretly. With the cream I usually just hunch over my cup simultaneously turning my back toward whoever might be nearest.