|Posted by Stephen on December 9, 2013 at 3:00 PM||comments (290)|
by Stephen Gillikin
I often hate myself, and I've been in several bands. Yet, despite these two coinciding facts, I've never been a modern rocker. And this is a shame.
I realize now that I never squandered my twenties by looking like and playing for those in their thirties. And why not? Regardless of whether I feel I have talent or not, that's a non-factor when it comes to modern rock.
Now, mod rock is a bit of a vague term, as is "rock," for that matter, so let me break down for you while I fantasize about my life that wasn't.
I'm in a band along with my brother. Of the other three members, one is a bassist we met via a previous band. The other two guys we're hired by the label.
We're best friends.
I wear not so much flannel, but a lot of western style wear. Occasionally though, you'll find photos of me performing in a Chicago Cubs t-shirt. Never minding the fact that I've never lived there.
One day though if they become good enough again to become nationally popular, I might start wearing a Tampa Bay Buccaneers jersey. Because this of course, is where I'm from.
Tampa Fucking Bay.
My brother and I grew up there. We like to tell people that we grew up slightly poor, listening to James Brown records, and that music saved us. Truthfully though, we were upper-middle class, my favorite music in high school was Sixpence None the Richer, and I didn't learn to play guitar until college.
I told a publication once that the moment I knew I needed to bring music to the world was at a frat party my freshman year. Def Leppard came on, and the way I saw a bunch of drunk 20 years-olds sing a long to being sticky sweet from their heads down to their feet, I knew. I knew I wanted to be mildly enjoyed by inebriated co-eds and by bored Americans pushing middle-age.
I have a well-kept beard. Brianna, my stylist, tells me it's very Eric Clapton. After the third time she made such a comment, I finally youtubed him to see who the hell she was talking about. I remember the movie "Phenomenon."
I love John Travolta.
I love Coors. I pretend it's different than any of the other cheap lagers out there. Jack Daniels is one of our tour sponsors. I should clarify, however, that it is specifically Jack Daniels' pre mixed cocktail malt beverages that sponsors our tours. An aluminum bottled "jack and coke" is only $12 at our show. You can also buy vinyls of ours at the merch table; our publicity people told us vinyls were cool again.
I tell myself I'm single, and it's awesome. I get to have sex with so many super-white people all over the continent. My dick is statistically average, five and a half inches or something, and I use it to fuck lots of people. Presenting my unsatisfying, average penis to the masses. This of course is the main staple of mod rock: spreading mediocrity all over.
Our last album ($12 digital download or $30 for vinyl) was a real growth for us. We finally got to be political. Cause, ya know, I'm just so tired of all the injustices in the world.
Did you know there's AIDS in Africa? And other places too?! Every time I see a homeless person, it really affects me and makes me want to do something. So I did.
I wrote a song about it.
We also have a song called "Too Big to Fail." It has a straight beat, driving guitars, and lyrics created by a modern economics words generator.
Its my soul on record.
So too is our other new song which actually is literally titled "My Soul on Record." Some magazines and certainly many blogs wrote that it was terrible. Self-congratulatory. Unironically not meta. And Wait, is this real?
Entertainment Weekly though called it a "break through," a "must have," and music that "makes you feel good about being bad."
I've learned now to cover all my demographics when referring to my influences.
I tell people we're inspired by The Beatles, Run DMC, Nirvana, Ozzy Osbourne, The Beatles Bon Jovi, TLC, Staind, the Beatles, and various other unrelated bands that don't sound alike but might have fans potentially willing to check us out.
Also the more times you can say "Beatles," the more people will assume you know what you're doing.
In actuality though, one morning the garbage truck broke down on the street while moving a dumpster of trash and Kings of Leon was playing at the apartment next door. This all sounded amazing to me, and it's pretty much exactly what my modern rock band is.
Maybe later today or just in the near future I could be pool side with Creed, married to Avril Lavigne, and making thousands of dollars writing forgettable songs for super hero soundtracks.
But this is fantasy for me and unfortunately not my living reality. Despite my age, I've still yet to find a way to turn my self-loathing into profit.
Perhaps music isn't the right angle.
I think it's time for me to try Reality TV.
Actual performance from a real band I was once in.
|Posted by Stephen on December 2, 2013 at 8:30 AM||comments (1)|
That Christmas, the Miserable One.
by Stephen Gillikin
It was 2005, the year of our Lord; this of course isn't true I don't think as much as it's just a stupid thing to say. If anything, 2005 was the year of Youtube, the Live 8 concerts, and Gina Davis having that shitty show where she was a female president.
That shitty, shitty show.
For my life personally however, it was the year I was completely out of academia, met people from myspace in the real world, turned 22, and had that miserable Christmas season.
It was also the year I watched that shitty Gina Davis show. Albeit only once, I'm obviously still quite bitter about it, and eight years removed, I want that hour back.
I lived by myself in a studio apartment in Koreatown with bars on the windows and a rat problem. OK, I didn't actually have a rat problem. What I had was more of a mouse situation and with just one, but more on that in a moment.
I also had a heater that didn't work. If you didn't live here you might assume LA doesn't need artificial warmth. This however is untrue. Forty degrees is forty degrees and while it is literally not freezing, it is what I would term "fucking cold enough for a heater."
My apartment manager asked me a few times if I generally was good and/or if I needed any help with my heater. My male pride at the time kept me from conceding that it wasn't working.
My male knowledge at the present informs me it was, in retrospect, broken. It was filthy and old and the pilot light always went out. So it all could've been worse, I could've blown up I suppose.
In October of that year, I discovered a mouse was travelling back and forth from my kitchen to the wall heater. I found this to be unacceptable, especially considering I slept on an air mattress on the floor. I was like a heroine addict only without the terrifying pleasure of being on heroine.
My plan of attack was to grab a can of Raid and shoot it at the rodent as he made the dangerous trek in between his dwellings. This of course explains the kind of homicide of which I'm capable. I'm just a good ol' fashioned, salt-of-the-earth poisoner. Courageous enough to not hire someone, but too cowardly to actually dirty my hands.
So as I'm shooting this beast on the run, he makes it to the wall unit which is when my wall temporarily flashes in flames. At this time the pilot was not out, and yes, spray poison is flammable. Fortunately for me, I have my life-long avoidance to being blown up.
Mouse distractions aside, the heater simply was unreliable. Thus I spent that winter and the ones that followed like some sort of Dickensian orphan, wearing multiple sweatpants and thermals under sweaters and padded socks and hats in doors. This while drinking tea which probably outnumbered my actual food by at least 4:1.
I suppose I was really more a character from Rent, only I don't sing in tune and I didn't have AIDS yet. I also don't currently have AIDS either, but I'm optimistic about what I can accomplish in the future!
In this state of hobo, heroine chic I utilized items that my parents had mailed to me. One was a metal, jingle balls wreath which I hung outside my door. And the other was a do-it-yourself gingerbread house kit.
So on some cold, December night I built and decorated a gumdrop fashioned cottage. By myself. With tea. And the ghost of the mouse I eventually murdered.
It's weird how when you're twenty-two and alone and it gets dark so early, just how much time drags. And while I do find myself entertaining enough, even I get sick of me and need a vacation away in the form of seeing other humans.
The sentiment goes, if I may wrap this up like a saccharine Hallmark movie I've watched by myself, that life is made worth living by those around you. The holidays in particular are made special by sharing the festivities with others.
It's also worth noting that when people get together, they fight, hate each other, force others to listen to their terrible tastes in music. On a grande enough scale, people even start wars or collaborate together to make that Gina Davis President drama.
That shitty, shitty piece of shit.
All I know is that eventually, I ate that gingerbread house.
And the Fed-Ex man stole my wreath.
Stephen currently lives at a YMCA in 1977. In his freetime he enjoys knitting and time-travelling to shitty locations.
|Posted by Stephen on June 1, 2012 at 6:10 PM||comments (2)|
Shameless Self Promotion (Literally. This is not an essay.)
by Stephen Gillikin
This is one of those rare occurrences where I put nearly zero effort into a post on my website (I typically put in about 13% effort.)
I've never been interested in twitter, and I still find it to be one of the more worthless over-hyped technologies of recent years.
That being said, I have recently signed up for an account.
BUT, the reason is......
Starting June 14th, myself and two other fun folks will be embarking on a roadtrip / documentary / film making experiment.
The idea (as is rather obvious from the title) is to travel to 50 states in 50 states whilst shooting one short film in every state along the way.
Here is the link
Kicking America's Ass: 50 States in 50 Days to Shoot 50 movies.
And I'd like to point out right now, that the terming of "Kicking America's Ass," is not some anti-patriotic speak, but rather the opposite in that it's the idea of being able to travel incredible distances and do seemingly improbable things, because we're kicking America's Ass along the way.
If you still don't get it, that's fine, and please now resort to imagining a person foot punching a country in the butt.
This of course is impossible though, because countries don't have human butts, and foot punching is typically referred to as "kicking."
So, with the KAA trip embarking soon, a twitter has also been set up for it.
This will provide updates and occasionally maybe witty insights.
However, I too decided to set up a twitter because
1. I am a narcissist. And
2. I can post things very specific to my perspective whilst travelling.
"Albuquerque? More like AlbuJERKe!"
"Florida? More like WHOREda!!"
"North Carolina? More like North Carolina!!....I mean, more like North CareVAGINA!"
and many other insanely clever and hilarious thoughts.
Maybe I'll even post pictures of food I'm about to eat. This of course will be done "ironically" because posting food photos is played out.
And then maybe I'll even post tweets about how people posting photos of their food is played out. This too will be done "ironically" because people complaining about people posting food photos is also played out.
So that's the jist, folks.
Now here are some links to different other publications saying junk about KAA.
A Hell of a Road Trip - Screen Daily
1 car, 4 friends, 50 states, 50 days, 50 movies - Daily Breeze
And my new, stupid twitter is here: twitter.com/StephenGillikin
With a love that will echo through the ages,
Stephen Gillikin, D.D.
|Posted by Stephen on May 22, 2012 at 12:45 AM||comments (1)|
My Celebrity Trajectory
by Stephen Gillikin
Every now and again somebody will ask you, "Whose career would you want?"
Basically, trying to get you to decide what other person you'd like to mimic. For instance, would you like to be Madonna famous? Or perhaps Bobcat Goldthwait famous?
Would you like the douchey "pretend to dip your self-important hands in everything" entrepreneurship of Ashton Kutcher?
Or a more simple Fat-Bassist-from-Goo Goo Dolls business plan where we can all safely assume that the only thing you professionally do is be the fat bassist from that 90's band.
Next time an industry-type or conversation-searching party goer asks me this, I will cut them off before they even get it all out, as I adamantly and with pure conviction yell, "Steve Harvey!!"
For emphasis, I might even scream "Steve Fucking Harvey!!!!"
Check it out.
I would love, and I truly mean "love," to have a shaved head and a caterpillar mustache.
If I have to also don a double breasted suit with thick-ass shoulder pads that's hopefully some gaudy color like fluorescent silver?
All the better.
Or for emphasis: All the fucking better!
Beyond me wanting to be like, or even just be Steve Harvey, we're already so similar.
We both have the same first name (I can only assume his actual name is Steven). We both write and act. And we both like to off-puttingly use the "N Word" when doing stand-up comedy.
We're basically brothers.
Well, he literally is "a brother," in the expressive way of the word. Meanwhile I have a biological and white brother, so...
We're basically brothers.
I could only dream to have his career.
I mean, how awesome would it be to get married like three different times, but still have the ballsy audacity to put out self-help books about relationships?!
If I could only be such a dick!!! Aghh, it would be awesome!!!!!
Or if say Regis Philbin hosted a really popular game show from the turn of the modern century, but then when they need a replacement for him they call....
No, not Steve or me. They call Meredith Vieira, from "The View" and "Today Show."
But THEN, when SHE doesn't want to do it anymore, guess who they call?
Steve Fucking Harvey!!!
Or if there's a classic syndicated game show with a history of hosts either engaging in sexual harassment or killing themselves, who do you hire to right that ship?
That's right, the guy who played Al Borland on "Home Improvement."
But what about after him...
Correct! The guy who played Peterman, Elaine's boss, on "Seinfeld."
Buuuuttttt, after that.....
That's right, the guy who played a character named "Steve" on a show called "The Steve Harvey Show."
Steve Mother Fucking Harvery!!!
That's what I want. That' who I need to be.
Now, let's get real for a second here. Seriously, guys. Let's get's real, OK?
According to Wikipedia, which in my experience is never wrong, it says that Steve MoFlippin' Harvey is not without controversy.
Apparently, Steve Harvey has a few times said that ladies should not date atheists. And the reason being that atheists have no "moral barometer."
Totes m'gotes correct, Mr. Harvey.
As we all know from History classes we took before dropping out of college (like Steve Fucking Harvey), most wars over the course of humanity have been caused my amoral scientists, and not at all by religious folks.
Steve Harvey is right on when denouncing astrophysics with, "You can't just tell me it spun out of a gastrous ball..."
Yea, I like saying "Fuck you" to physics too!
I also really look up to and am enamored by the way Steve Harvey judges morality with an instrument used to measure atmospheric pressure.
Neverminding of course the fact that the barometer was invented by a physicist.
And in dispute of evolutionary biology, "Why we still got monkeys?"
Finally! Somebody is speakin' my language.
One time, I was going through my ex-girlfriend and I's board game collection and noticed "Barrel of Monkeys" was in there. To which my astonished mouth uttered, "Why we still got monkeys?!"
In general too, I love sentences that lack grammar and missing important verbs.
Like Steve Stone-Cold Harvey, I could never imagine to be open-minded enough to consider that if there is a God perhaps astrobiology was the way He formed the cosmos. Or that perhaps evolution is the scientific explanation of all that shit that went down those first 6 days in Genesis.
Yea, forget that junk! I ain't got time to think 'bout that, n-word, please!
Now, if you excuse me, Family Feud be on, and I gots watch my hero.
And continue to ponder, "Why we still got monkeys?"
Stephen Gillikin currently resides in West Virginia, the same shit hole that birthed Steve Harvey. While the state does have notable universities like Marshall and WVU, Stephen lives nowhere near their academic influence.
|Posted by Stephen on May 18, 2012 at 9:15 AM||comments (2)|
The Guy who Had that Sex Scam
by Stephen Gillikin
For five wondrous years of my life I lived in a haven, a Xanadu if you will. A mythical land of milk and honey. A mecca for the enlightened. A beautiful, golden cesspool know by Angelenos as K-Town.
Or Koreatown for those who don't prefer stupid abbreviations.
And in case you didn't catch it, I was being saracastic in my description of the place. Ya know, more like Xana-Dont! Huh? Huh? No? Fine. I figured it was a dumb joke.
First off, K-Town isn't that bad. It is centrally located, has lots of intriguing places to eat, and the "K" might as well stand for karaoke.
It's a bit bad too though. Regardless that people I personally know were mugged there, or that I saw multiple drug deals go down, or that I had to side-step human feces on more than one occasion (and one occasion should be one too many.), my main happiness in no longer residing there is that I'm no longer neighbors with the guy who had that sex scam. Actually, he had the idea for the scam, more than the actual scam.
Imagine if you a will, a man who looks like Steve Buscemi. And not in a "Oh, you look like a notable and respected actor," but more like "You actually look like one of the creepy characters he's portrayed."
Fake Buscemi, or F.B. (which is how I'll refer to him from here on) worked in telemarketing. I know this because any time I had to go the back of the apartment house to do laundry or throw trash away F.B. was out there with some can or 40 oz bottle of whatever malt liquor he got his hands on that day.
The amazing thing about F.B. is that he was ageless. If he were my age, or 50, or anywhere in between, I wouldn't be surprised. I suppose kind of like Real Buscemi for most of his career.
So try not to think of this as an old, alcoholic telemarketer and try not to regard him as young alcoholic telemarketer. He was more like an idea. Like someone in the 70's was doing LSD and had some fucked up, nonsense idea, and somehow that acid idea personified itself into a real, living person.
This idea is this person. This person is Fake Buscemi.
I got along well enough with F.B.. I'd listen to his non sequitur rants. And I wouldn't immediately dismiss his half-idea of forming a class-action lawsuit against the Department of Water.
I guess I'm mellow enough, and maybe more importantly, I never complained that the studio he shared always smelled and since they kept the door open because they didn't have AC, the hot odor of human filth would waft out into the common hallway.
This is why he trusted me. This is why he offered me in on his scheme. And asked me to be his partner.
Here's how it works:
You take out an ad in LA Weekly or some other local paper claiming that you are a single man who has just won the lottery. The sad irony though is that you are single and wish you had a girl with whom you could share your life and new found millions, and for $50 you'll interview them as your prospective wife. (This is a paraphrase that's probably a little more elegant than the way he put it.)
As a result now, all these stupid, money-hungry bitches are gonna start responding, and then when they come over here, we get their $50. And we get to fuck them. (This is a paraphrase that's actually pretty accurate to his description.)
There's a lot wrong with this plan. The most obvious of which is the moral aspect, but being that is so inherently obvious, I didn't even comment on it. I figured we must be discussing this ironically or just as hypothetical.
So I throw out, "Wouldn't any woman who comes to our apartment realize immediately that neither one of us just won the lottery?...If you're going to be getting $50 a head (no pun intended) might it be worth your investment to spend like even $100 on a hotel. After your 3rd girl you'd be making profit, not to mention, you'll have just had sex for free with three different and desperate women."
I could tell he didn't entirely like my augmentation of his plan, but I could also see through his cloudy, bulging eyes, that his drunk brain was trying to process all this. After a few moments, and some agreeing head-shakes, he gave a "That could work."
I assume this conversation is done now and fully expect to go eat a whole watermelon or whatever it is I do by myself.
"So, are you in?"
This crazy bastard is balls-to-the-wall serious.
After some laughing and polite dismissal I walk away to go play a Taylor Swift song on piano or whatever it is I do by myself.
For multiple encounters after this though, whenever I'd see F.B., he'd ask, "So, you think about it more?"
I completely get why people liked hanging out in K-Town for the night. It's one of the most unique pockets of LA, and can be totally fun in small enough doses. Now that I've spent about a year-and-a-half living in a more respectable location, I can appreciate K-Town from a "tourist" perspective.
But living there is a different beast.
I moved out of K-Town probably about 6 months after F.B. and I's first conversation about the sex scheme.
I didn't tell any of my neighbors. I just left.
Stephen Gillikin currently lives in Atwater Village. A recent recipient of the Mega Millions contest, he is also single and searching for love.
|Posted by Stephen on May 15, 2012 at 9:10 AM||comments (4)|
For Those Who Eat Old Grapes.
by Stephen Gillikin
Yes, this IS something I wrote some time ago, but I've been sick (lazy) and busy with so much (uninspired).
Either way, I know I've rewatched movies that I've seen before, or taken a second glance at books I've already read.
The point is...
...Raisins just need to back the fuck up.
It's true. For years I have lived under their oppression. Under their wielding sword of tarnishing otherwise delicious foods.
You ever eat an oatmeal cookie and think to yourself "Man, this would be so delicious if it wasn't for these raisins?"
And what are the raisins adding? I've eaten Bran Flakes. And I liked it. It was crunchy, slightly sweet, high in fiber, and most everything I wanted a cereal to be.
But Raisin Bran?
OK, that stuff is good, but it's basically the same nutritional benefits but with twice the calories. And if I'm gonna double my calories it better not be because of some raisin and his cavalier attitude. My extra calories should come from BBQ chicken pizza or an entire pan of brownies or a swimming pool full of Guinness. Not from some hell-bent raisin.
Chewy granola bars. They're good; so good in fact that I don't even eat them, cause eating one leads to eating two which leads to "Well, I've already eaten two so what's one more?" which leads to "Well now, I've eaten half the box, might as well just finish it."
But you know what's not good?
Raisins in that shit.
Imagine the situation: you've got a delicious looking granola bar in your hand and the approving smile of that Quaker guy looking at you from the box. Nothing right now could be better than putting this chocolate chip granola treat into your mouth.
But OH MY GOD.
What the hell is this?! These are...these are raisins! Not sweet, delectable chocolate morsels.
Inadvertently eating a raisin granola bar instead of a chocolate chip one is literally the worst feeling in the world. Yes, literally! Believe me.
Once, when I was two, my dog had a litter of puppies. I was holding one and apparently dropped him. The next day, that puppy died.
What this means is that I may or may not have killed a puppy in my life. As terrible as this guilt and sadness is for me, it is NOTHING in comparison to the array of negative emotions I process when accidentally eating raisins with granola when I fully expected delicious chocolate.
It's like vomiting onto Santa's lap. Or even worse, like Santa vomiting on your lap.
Terrible, terrible stuff.
Look raisins, we got it covered. Your own people got it covered.
Regular grapes? Awesome.
Grape juice? ...Slightly less awesome but still decently fantastic.
We don't need your shriveled up bull shit ruining the rep of the grape family. Now, I am a reasonable man, and I'm not saying all raisins should be banished. I don't advocate a raisin genocide of sorts, more so just a...raisin segregation. You just stay there. You do you. I'll do me.
Just think of it in terms of...we should just see other people. And yes, you should worry, because it actually is you.
Stephen Gillikin currently lives in a dimly lit and sweaty place. He often appears looking longingly with past memories while actually being pantsless and thinking about kittens.
|Posted by Stephen on May 8, 2012 at 9:30 AM||comments (0)|
How Not to Fly
by Stephen Gillikin
When it comes to traveling, do what you got to do to make it work. As long as you're not negatively affecting me, I don't care.
Which by the way, don't negatively affect me.
Like, don't be of such decent size (which is the way I like to kindly refer to fat folks) that your arm fat or even torso fat bubbles over onto the armrest and actually hits the buttons and changes the channel while I'm trying to watch Design On a Dime or whatever I watch on JetBlue's DirectTV service.
And yes this has happened.
Not the Design On a Dime part; I'm not even certain what that show even actually is. But I have had a decently sized man's decently sized forearm gel over while he slept.
But beyond this intrusive and sort of super specific example, I don't care.
Get drunk, masturbate in the bathroom with USA Today, box your child's ears, do whatever it is you need to do to make the flying traveler situation more manageable for yourself.
However, this doesn't mean that I won't notice what you do and secretly judge you.
I don't get when people start eating a meal as soon as they board the plane.
Not as soon as take-off happens; as soon as we board. I understand the idea of bringing food in case anytime mid-flight you decide to meal it up, but if you eat as soon as you sit, some 20 minutes before we're even on the runway?
Why didn't you just eat in the terminal? Are you trying to tell me that you had the patience, foresight, and restraint to hold onto your sandwich while you waited outside the gate, but the second you smelled recycled air and heard Celine Dion as you made your way into your leather-ish aisle seat, you just had to stuff your decently sized mouth with overpriced Burger King, leaving you with trash to hold onto?
People who do their makeup within the first 20 minutes on a plane.
If it's an hour or less flight, I get it, ladies.
Or if you're traveling with your significant male, I get that you want to look good for him and that he'd never love you otherwise.
But beyond that, what the hell are you doing?
And for who?
Do you think you're going to run into an attractive guy while making your way to the bathroom? You'd be lucky to even settle for running into someone like me on your way.
And I assure you, I won't notice.
Because when I'm coming back from an airplane lavatory, all I'm thinking about is one, not falling, and two, not accidentally trying to sit in the wrong seat.
And when I'm making my way to the bathroom, all I'm thinking about is how I'm going to have be fast in there, because right now the people seated closest to the back might notice I went in and then maybe they'll clock how long I went in, and start wondering what kind of a bathroom visit I'm experiencing.
In fairness though, the odds that they pay attention of that is as likely as me paying notice to an en-route female's just-applied make-up.
Get your baby the fuck off the plane. I know sometimes babies have have places to be too, and I've often felt bad for especially a single-traveling parent with their spawn.
But I have a good feeling that a lot, if not most of the idiots voyaging with their tiny demon are doing so for no good reason.
You've got a one-year old but still want to vacation in Fort Myers?
1. I don't know why you choose Fort Myers as your get away destination, you decently sized head, but
2. Leave the shrieker at home. Or don't go 'till it's older.
And if you're a big enough dick to bring your misbehaved seed on an extraneous trip then I think you should probably also go and be a big enough a-hole to try sedating your child first.
People do it with their animals all the time.
Aside from the attendants running out of cranberry juice and then trying to pass off cranapple as the same thing, I've never been in an "emergency situation" on a plane. But I will still throw out the following:
I get it, you chose the exit aisle for the extra leg room. Personally, I don't find it a favorable trade to give up seat-recline range for a little more foot space, but you do, and that's fine.
However, when shit comes to balls, you better be willing to open that door.
If I burn alive in the cabin because some non-hero with long legs wanted the "good seat," I swear I will haunt your family. And not friendly candlestick moving, Disneyland Haunted Mansion style. I'm talking about getting Insidious up in your shit. I'm the sort of ghost that will literally frighten you to death. Or at least pee in your hot water heater.
I will make your walls run with blood, turn your food into maggots and bile, and I'll leave your bathroom light on even when nobody's in there just so that your power bill is slightly higher.
But fortunately I'm not dead, and hopefully I'll never have to haunt anything as that would severely interfere with my goal of hanging out and bouncing around in a heaven made entirely of marshmallows and cotton candy that can also be eaten at will.
It's my afterlife plan, OK, don't judge me about it.
And as long as you don't, I'll keep my flight judgments to myself.
And to whoever else reads this website.
Stephen is currently working on a screenplay adaptation of the Tiki Room attraction at Disneyland. In free-time, he can be found oil-painting or playing catch with his illegitimate son. He lives in San Antonio.
|Posted by Stephen on May 4, 2012 at 11:35 AM||comments (1)|
The One about Mexico sorta
by Stephen Gillikin
Hola mi amigos,
Tomorrow is Cinco de Mayo, and fittingly enough I 'm in Mexico right now. Well, I'm only in Mexico as of the time this publishes. Literally, I'm currently in Pasadena and tomorrow is April 21st. Although you could be reading this anytime after it publishes, in which case I'm neither in Mexico nor Pasadena considering I don't live in either place.
However, if you believe in the quantum physics theory of time being cyclical then I suppose I'm actually at all of these possible place right now as my entire existence is just one mind-blowing, infinite point.
But alas, let's get to this shindig about how awesome Mexico is, and
(Once again, I'm not actually in Mexico yet as of the time I'm writing this, so this essay will not be factual or substance-based.)
Mexico is the greatest! Although, what's up with some of the drivers here, huh? You know what I'm saying? More like MexiSlow!
But seriously folks, some of the automobiles drive fast. Too fast! And I gotta be all like, "Hey, hey hey. MexiWhoa!!!!"
The ladies are nice though. But there's certainly some MexiHoes! You know what I'm saying?!?!
I guess that's part of the nightlife, huh? Snorting some MexiBlow through your MexiNose before listening to some song by MexiFlow-Rida and then buying a knock off t-shirt of that cute monster MexiDomo.
Now, I MexiKnow what you're thinking? Hey, aren't you just putting words that rhyme with "co" at the end of "Mexi?"
Well, MexiSo what? Maybe this idea won't MexiBlow your mind, the way the Matrix did when they were fighting in MexiSlow-mo in that MexiDojo.
If you don't like it, why don't you just MexiGo to MexiLowes and pick up some MexiStucco so you can build your own MexiHome where you can be MexiLonley and MexiGrow to be MexiOld without reading my website. MexiOk? Does that sound better to you??
Because if not, I will continue to talk about famed Rangers Pitcher, MexiNolan Ryan or the prized jewel, the MexiHope Diamond.
Look look look! I'm sorry I have to intervene here and stop this essay from being published any further. Sorry, let me introduce myself, this is Stephen from the future.
I'm actually from 1987, but it turns out that time is an infinite circle after all, and so the past is actually also the future. Look, it gets confusing, but through a story Ill have to save for another time, I've basically mastered traveling the Ring of Time, and I'm using this power now to intervene in this essay.
I have now since been to and returned from Mexico, and so I' can tell fun stories about it instead of just doing this stupid rhyming device.
Although, I'm not going to. Just the same way I'm not going to explain why I used time travel to interject midway through this essay instead of just cutting it off from the very beginning.
Ok, look, time travel is not easy, alright? And do you know what it's like to be in 1987 right now and trying to use the internet. Yea, wrap your head around that will ya?
I'm doing my best here.
Anyway, I'll save Mexico stories for some other location or time or whatever. It's all the same and everything ever is happening simultaneously right now, so it doesn't matter.
I'll just say this. Mexico has parts that are fun.
Although eventually it blows up.
But hey, that's like millions of years from when this is published, so you need not worry. It happens long after Taylor Hanson (from the band, Hanson) becomes President. And long after Aliens invade and steal all our babies. And long after the human species is non-existent. Although, technically all that stuff already happened in the past and/or is happening now.
Sorry, I should've never time traveled and used it interrupt the essay about Mexico.
I'm MexiSorry. (that one only sounds right if you apologize like a Canadian.)
Stephen Gillikin currently exists and doesn't. He enjoys gardening, and despite the preceding, is not on any drugs.
|Posted by Stephen on May 1, 2012 at 11:15 AM||comments (1)|
Folks often refer to this minute corner of cyberspace as "my blog." Well actually they call it "your blog" because they're talking to me, but anyway I'm not going to further this argument of semantics with myself right now.
The reason I don't call this "a blog" is because I tend to think of blogs as being like diaries or websites where people talk about what they did this weekend and post photos of their french toast to prove it.
Being most things here are fictitious and/or composed in essay format, I feel this does not typically fit these terms. However, for this first time, I will get all bloggy here at stephengillikin.com, and will put up an entry I wrote on an old blog of mine.
(You had me at) Hello world wide web!
This summer has been insane. I know I haven't written here in almost forever, but I've got to let you know what's happening.
The Nutty Professor was so good. In it, Eddie Murphey plays like 5 different characters, most of whom are very fat. Oh man! I hope he keeps making more movies like this. It'll never get old!!
The other day I wanted to search some info so I was surfing around on AskJeeves.com and apparently there's a Duke Nukem 3D!
I think that'll be the end of video games. It just looks so real. I think we've definitely hit our zenith now.
My geocities website is doing well. It's got links to "The Wallflowers" and "Alanis Morissette" on it. I think people will really enjoy it.
I still haven't seen Independence Day yet, but I did see Phenomenon instead. It stars that same guy from the movie Michael about the angel. These were both so good, I don't think I can ever see John Travolta making a bad movie.
The Summer Olympics were fun. It might've been cooler if they were in Greece for the centennial of the games, but Atlanta was good anyhow, and it's here in the US!
And I think they did a great job of making it about the sportsmanship and spirit and not the corporate sponsorships and advertising.
I'm thirsty. I think I'll go grab a Coke real quick.
Back! And speaking of money, did you hear that there's a Titanic movie being made? Apparently they've spent 100's of millions of dollars on it and it stars that girly actor Leonardo Dicaprio. Umm, can you say massive flop?
The new season premiere of "The Single Guy" is next week. This show is an INSTANT classic. It'll be on way longer than "Friends," or even "Seinfeld" for that matter. Those are good too though. Everything on NBC is awesome. They definitely have the best shows. Except they don't have "Home Improvement" and they do have Jay Leno. But I figure they'll wise up and get rid of Leno in like a year or two.
In general though, there's just a lot of great stuff going on in the world. There's money everywhere and new businesses and jobs all over the place. I just feel lucky to be in such a prosperous and safe country.
The only bummer is I did miss out on a chance to visit New York for the first time on a school trip. Oh well. I can't imagine that city or it's skyline will be changing anytime at all in the next 5 or 10 years.
Stephen lives at his parents' house in Suffolk, VA. He currently studies Algebra, Ancient World History, and various other middle school subjects. This photo is inexplicably from the future. Early 2002 to be exact.
|Posted by Stephen on April 27, 2012 at 7:45 AM||comments (0)|
by Stephen Gillikin
I'm just going to tell you right now, being a bad ass is not easy. It takes more than an attitude, more than killer cars, and more than hordes of bitches. And I do have all these things whenever I'm on little sleep, or am watching "Christine," or am volunteering at the animal shelter.
However, the most important part of being a bad ass is the scars. To be a real BA you need to have stories of manly, bodily injury.
And I have those.
3rd grade. I'm playing in the backyard and wearing short khaki shorts and white socks pulled up all the way, because that's how Bad A's do it.
And my make-believe play-time was so fricken' hard, that I broke my arm. I broke my arm by jumping but not completely clearing a wooden sheep lawn ornament. Boom!
OGs like me, that's how we do it! By getting our mid-air foot stuck on a 3-feet tall, 2-dimensional, fake sheep.
Once, I bled on the hard streets of Portsmouth, VA. Literally!
1988. I'm fine and ballin' at some kickball on the cul de sac. Not knowing entirely where to stand, I may or may not have blocked home plate inadvertently by being between it and third.
That's how rebels and B. Asses do it, by not playing by society's "rules."
My head was driven into the black asphalt, lodging two rock fragments into the top of my forehead and streaming blood all over my face. They did remove the pebbles, although my skull, to this day, still has a noticeable indention in it.
The kid who pushed me? Found dead at 18 from either suicide or a deal gone bad. Yea, karma's Bad Ass too, fool!
2011. I need to get some blood work done for my migraines, a physical infliction that only happens to the coolest and most bad ass guys. Per the testing, I need to not eat 12 hours prior, but with my schedule and sleep ability at the time, it worked out to being closer to 16 hours of fasting.
They drew the blood, and just as I'm signing myself out, I wake up on the floor.
Next to the gurney.
Bad Asses don't need gurneys when they faint. The linoleum next to one is suitable enough.
But my true BadAssitude is displayed by my ability to time travel. I went from one moment to 5 minutes later in a second! In that emotionless, robot voice, I can hear Stephen Hawking saying, "What a bad ass."
How can you be a bad ass, you wonder?
Well first, find the right music. That sounds that just gets you going. For me, and most, I'd suggest ABBA. Fernando is a good start, but be careful of Dancing Queen. It's only for intermediate BAs and higher.
Free time activities?
Try maybe some early 20th century sci-fi literature. Olaf Stapledon will turn your ass from good to bad in a nano-second. Or, on a cosmological time-scale, it'll happen in only a million years!
And what to wear?
Something that's comfortable but suitable enough if you have to unexpectedly meet somebody at Outback Steakhouse. This look can be called and referred to as "hobo-chic."
And that's it! You too can have wicked awesome stories like mine if you follow the preceding. And then maybe even you can have a website where you blog.
Totally bad ass!
Stephen is a huge fan of meat flavored potato chips. He is currently cryogenically frozen near Colorado Springs. He has two cats, Jacob and Bella. They are also frozen.