The Derelict Profile

In the dawn of Facebook, during the college years, things were simple.  In it's infancy, Facebook's interface was uninvolved.  You had a profile.  You had the ability to message.  You could poke bitches.  Simple as that...

...but the people demanded more.

Facebook coders added walls and photos and groups and clubs and events and apps and games and links and instant messenger and locations and notes and activity logs and notifications and timelines and cover photos.  The project had snowballed.  Soon the Facebook was a jumbled concoction of code written by out of control dreamers hell-bent on building the perfect, all-encompassing social network.

The complexity was daunting.  I lost interest.

I left Facebook in search of simpler times.  Simpler social media.  Twitter.  Instagram. Foursquare.  I was hooked on the simplicity of the Facebook-lites.  Their inequality in content was the very reason I was drawn to them, and what little time I had devoted to Facebook was now given to the uncomplicated social networks.

Now my Facebook is floating in the social media abyss.  The profile is a ghost ship with no crew to man her.  Passers by, other profiles in the social media seas, hail the doomed vessel but receive echoes and silence in return.

So why not blast the ghost ship into social network smithereens?  Why not get rid of the Facebook?  What good does it do me?  What purpose does it serve?

Well I'm glad I asked myself these rhetorical questions...

Pictures. At current there 1,104 photos of me on Facebook.  Shit.  Scratch that.  It just jumped to 1,113 while writing this post.  See?  I can't even stop the photos from rollin' in.  It's amounted to a shit ton of photos.  Some might say a fuck ton.

A super majority, including the photos just posted, were added by trigger happy friends, and I couldn't be more grateful.  These visual records of the past take me back to events in my life, for better or for worse, that define me.  Every time I peer into the collection, I run across a forgotten moment bringing back a rush of emotion, and it's an enjoyable part of the Facebook experience.

Stalking.  I am a lion on the prowl and your life is my prey.  I'll dig through your photos, your wall and your friends list in search of the superficial nitty gritty.  Something piqued my curiosity.  We bumped in to one another.  Someone mentioned your name.  I accidentally drunk dialed you.  Whatever it was got me curious to see what you're doing, where you're doing it, and who you're doing it with.  The network spurs cyber stalking, and I cherish that creepy aspect of Facebook.

Vanity. I'm not ashamed to admit I keep Facebook around to rub it in the faces of friends that I'm leading an awesome life. I'm the motha fuckin' boss, and I'm living the life you wish you were leading, and if you can't handle that, then that's exactly why I post on Facebook.

Just kidding.

I don't really do that...but only because I never post on Facebook.  Besides there's no need to post when all those pics can do the talking.  If photos are worth 1,000 words, then by my math, I have 1,113,000 words already on Facebook.  I'm owning the Facebook pissing contest, and I appreciate that social network shit show.

My Facebook profile is adrift, lost and alone with no captain to give it direction.  And I'm OK with that.  I'm using that piece of social media how I want to use it; to retain memories, to stalk, to promote myself.  I'm not obsessed and constantly perusing.  I'm not zoned out and glued to a screen.  I'm not caught up in the online drama.  

The Facebook lost me when it ballooned into a social network that demanded upkeep.  Now the precious minutes budgeted for social media go to the well-deserving, simple outlets, because the instant Facebook felt like a chore, the honeymoon was over.

I may be the Amish curmudgeon of social media, but I'm happy, so please forgive my derelict profile.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

The Silver Surfer Recovery

My heartbeat soared.  My stomach dropped.  My mind raced.  The Silver Surfer had been parked in this exact spot, on this street corner, and now there was nothing but empty asphalt and chunks of tempered glass.  It was all the evidence I needed.  My car had been stolen.

Panic set in.  Who to call first?  It was 7:30 on a Wednesday morning.  I knew Mum would be asleep, but I tried anyway.  Mum would fix this.  Mum would rescue me.  Mum would find my car.  No answer.  Fuck.

Dad was next up.  I attempted to type his number into my cellphone, but my grief-stricken head was jumbling numbers and I dialed my own.  Hitting my voice mail confused me.

Remembering that I had numbers saved in my phone (fucking duh), I typed in D-A-D and hit call.  Two rings later, he picked up.

"Hello?"
"Hey, Dad."
"Yeah?"
"My car was stolen."
"Shiiiiiit."

Not exactly sure what I was expecting out of my father at that moment.  Sympathy.  Empathy.  Reassurance. I explained my next course of action was to call the Portland Police non-emergency number (503.823.3333), file a report and contact my insurance agent.  Dad gave his blessing.

The non-emergency number enters with prerecorded instructions to "Please hang up and dial 911 if this is an emergency."  Well no shit.  From there it's one of those Choose-Your-Own-Adventure phone robot games. Press 1 if this shit happened to you.  Press 2 if you want a cop.  Press 3 if yadda yadda yadda.  Upon successfully navigating the phone tree maze, I reached an enthusiastic (not sarcasm) dispatcher who diligently took down my information and instructed me to wait for an office to file a police report.

Wait? Wait where? There's no time to wait!

I paced up and down the block thinking every passing minute was increased opportunity for my car to be stripped, dumped and burned.  The Silver Surfer could be miles away by now.  He's in trouble.  HE NEEDS ME!

My next dial was to the insurance agent. I wasn't wasting any time.  She needed to know.   I needed to alert her to this travesty and brace her for the claims filing ahead.  Helpful as always, Agent passed along her sympathies and told me to get her the case number off the police report when I could.

"Will do."    *Click*

Frustrated by the amount of time passing, I walked the distance from my apartment door to the curb where I'd left the car, all the while clicking the panic button on the fob.  After several trips, I admitted futility and, ultimately, defeat.  Whoever had my car was clearly not hiding it on my block.

Amazingly I felt little anger towards the individual responsible for jacking the Silver Surfer.  I'm OK, the car is just a material possession, and besides, insurance will pick up the tab.  I was at peace with the idea that perhaps the perpetrator needed the car more than me.  Times were hard and they were pushed to the edge...Gone in Sixty Seconds style.

Not to say I didn't want the car back.  So in an act of desperation, I turned to social media in the hopes of attracting enough eyes to somehow miraculously save the Silver Surfer from the clutches of evil.

Dumb.  Naive.  Desperate.  The method of grassroots detective work via social media seemed logical at the time, but ultimately it leads to nothing more than online sympathy and a plethera of text messages from friends reading, "Dude!" or "Seriously?!" or "What happened?!"

Aware I would need to get to work eventually, I called Girlfriend, knowing full well she'd be asleep but would likely have her phone on.

"I'm still sleeping," she said in a groggy voice.
"I know, [cutesy pet name], but someone stole my car."
"What?!"

She was energized.  After providing all the details, I asked her for a ride to work.  She would get ready for work and be right over.  Excellent.

All the phone calls, texts, and live tweeting was sucking my smartphone's juices, so I moved the search HQ into my apartment.  After plugging in the phone, I setup my laptop to follow social media updates and turned on the local news in hopes of a police chase/arrest involving my car.  Nothing.

To pass the time, I began trolling Craigslist.  Half in search of my car.  Half in search of a new car.  I was coming to terms with my loss.  Chances were good that I'd never see the Silver Surfer again.  He was gone.  If the body ever was found, I knew it would be stripped.  The car would be written off by insurance and I'd need a replacement.  Moving on was the right thing to do.  It's what he would have wanted...

An eternity passed before the police officer called.  He explained there had been a car accident and it took precedent, so he would need to take my statement by phone.  He took similar information as the dispatcher, walked me through the last time I saw the vehicle, and then gave a police report number (which I promptly passed along to my insurance agent).

Alright.  Shit was handled.  My parents were in the loop.  My social network was keeping an eye out.  My local cops had an APB out.  My insurance agent was processing the claim.  My employer was expecting a late arrival.  My Craigslist prospecting was decent.  My girlfriend was on her way over for pickup.  Nothing to do now but sit and wait.

Girlfriend didn't mess around.  She arrived in about 20 minutes and called my cell.

"Hey."
"Hi."
"Are you here?"
"Yes."
"OK...I'll be right down..."
"What's your license plate?"
"[plate number]...why?"
"Your car is down here?"
"WHAT?!...Are you serious?"
"Yes...your car is down the block."

In my morning mental fog and haste to get to work, I had arrived at the exact spot where I had parked my car...two days earlier.  I had indeed left the Silver Surfer in that very spot, but I had subsequently moved him.  I saw the tempered glass laying in an empty spot on the block, put two and two together and made fifty-seven.

Defense: I live in the city.  I don't have assigned parking.  I park on the street.  My driveway is about a four block radius around my apartment.  This was bound to happen eventually.

Lesson: If I ever find my car stolen again, I'll take a deep breath and walk the streets around my apartment clicking my fob prior to calling/posting anyone/anything.

Advice: If you ever report your car stolen and find it before the authorities do, make sure you notify the cops.  They will pull you out at gunpoint, rough you up a bit, and generally treat you like a criminal.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Hairdo & Commentary

I went out on a limb. Took a chance. Grew my hair out. Screw you! It's more than you've done. Your idea of adventure is going commando to work. Kudos, but no one notices except your dry cleaner.

Sorry...that was a little hostile...you've done nothing wrong...yet.  Please keep reading.

This is an experiment. It's an adventure. Foreign territory. It's a new haircut.

...Jägerbombs!

To me it feels like much ado about nothing (no pun intended). Hair grows. It's been growing. I didn't buzz it off. Thus I have longer hair. But when you go from Doctor Evil to Super Saiyan I suppose a little commentary should be expected.

This to that.

Still. It's been relentless.

Anyway...here's a smattering of the shit I've been hearing since letting hairs grow...

"I like your hair."
A much needed compliment. When you delve into the unknown, as I have, you need the encouragement of those around you, lest you reach for the beard trimmer. Your comment is appreciated. You're a gentleman and a scholar. Good day, sir. I SAID GOOD DAY!

"It makes you look younger."
Come again? Younger? Typically buzz cuts are the ultimate in childish haircuts. They're simple to maintain and fit into the cheapo family budget. So to go from near bald to product-styled do and hear that I look younger is a welcome surprise. Again...I need all the encouragement I can get. You are a gentlewoman and an acedemic. Good day, ma'am. I SAID GOOD DAY!

"Are you growing your hair out?"
A little trite. You can do better. It's the more friendly, personal equivalent of talking about the weather. But, if you must know, I will be growing my hair out from now until I'm six feet under. This shit just won't stop coming.

"What's going on up there?"
OK...now we're venturing into the we-better-be-friends territory. The question implies the interviewer holds whatever is going on up there in disdain. Fuck you. It's my hair. It's growing. That's what's going on up there. A-hole.

"Are you just getting lazy or is this the new look?"
Well, well. Aren't we ballsy? Thanks for the loaded question, dickhole. Please enjoy this stern glare and a hostile lade response. The question implies that my appearance is somewhat unkempt. I smell great. I shaved. I ironed my shirt. It's the new look.

"Can't get the top down in the Miata?"
I'll give credit where credit is due. This one is a little inventive and gets you some points to compensate for being an asshole. The question implies that my hair is funky and my wheels are the stereotypical gay man's car. Well played, dick.

"What's up, David Beckham?!"
I smiled. Thought this was a compliment. But have you seen Beckham's hair recently? Seriously, Google that shit. It's weird. Fuck it. I'll Google it for you...

See...fucking weird, right? Sooo...what's up, David Beckham?!

...and not wanting to end on a sour note...

"What's up, Wolverine?!"
Admittedly...I like this. I dressed up as Wolverine once for Halloween. Threw on a wife beater, tucked it into some jeans, wore a huge belt buckle, stole knives from the college eatery to use as claws...and just generally looked like a badass. Looking like Wolverine is A-OK...keep that shit coming.


I'm doing something bold. Trying things out. Experimenting. And it's a work in progress. So in the interim...you know...until I figure this beast out...best keep your mouth shut because you're kind of starting to sound like a bitch.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Mister Hipster

You're a slack one, Mister Hipster
You really are a sloth,
You're as lazy as a larch,
You're as pointless as a moth, Mister Hipster,
You're a porcupine's balls with greasy black froth!

You're a dummy, Mister Hipster,
Your head's an empty hole,
Your brain is full of toxins,
You have weed in your bowl, Mister Hipster,
Employers wouldn't touch you with a thirty-nine & a half foot pole!

You're a foul one, Mister Hipster,
You have termites in your flat,
You have all the sex infections
Of a filthy wrestling mat, Mister Hipster,
Given a choice between the two of you I'd fuck the wrestling mat!

You're a rotter, Mister Hipster,
You're the king of sinful sots,
You stink of dead tomato
Splotched with moldy purple spots, Mister Hipster,
You're a triple decker vomit chunk and burnt stool sandwich with sweaty arse sauce!

You nauseate me, Mister Hipster,
With a nauseous super crotch!
You're a sluggish ass jockey
And you ride a sluggish hoss, Mister Hipster,
Your body is an appalling dump heap overflowing with the most disgraceful assortment of feces imaginable mangled up in tangled up knots!

You're a foul one, Mister Hipster,
You're a stinky, skanky skunk,
Your home is full of unwashed socks
Your toes are full of gunk, Mister Hipster,
The three words that best describe you are as follows, and I quote 'Lazy, cheap, whore'!

xoxo,
ShavedGolf


Image liberated from guardian.co.uk.

Black Snake Moan

ShavedGolf Industries
6969 Lick My Dick Lane
Portland, OR, 97269

To The American Firework Industry:

It has come to the attention of the American people that you have promoted, produced and sold an epically lame firework entitled Black Snakes. This letter is to serve as a formal cease and desist for reasons of false advertising, liberty infringement, and high treason.

Your work entitled Black Snakes, which annually appears in the hands of disappointed children, is false advertising. Your work, Black Snakes, is a disgusting perversion of the definition of firework. Products that stay on the ground and do not emit sparks, flares, any form of projectiles, or any sound cannot be considered fireworks. Simply put, your product is not fun.

Your blatant disregard for entertainment during the Fourth of July holiday is unpatriotic.  Products that merely steam ash when lit, labeled as fireworks, and sold to Americans to celebrate their liberation from tyranny, borderlines on terrorism. Therefore, I believe you have willfully infringed on American liberty as outlined in the Constitution and could be held for treason and liable for statutory damages as set forth by God.

America demands that you immediately cease the production and distribution of all infringing products, including but not limited to Black Snakes,Jumbo Anaconda Black Snakes, MeDusa Jumbo Black Snakes, Colored Snakes,Dizzy Snakes, Mighty Max Snakes or any other item currently in production with snake in the name. All unused, undistributed Black Snakes, and various knockoffs, are to be destroyed immediately.

Americans are tired of these mother fucking snakes on their mother fucking driveways!

If I have not received an affirmative response from you by Independence Day indicating that you have fully complied with these requirements, I shall consider taking any and all legal remedies available to promote fun, defend freedom, and protect America.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

ShavedGolf Does Instagram

Mark Zuckerberg paid a billion dollars for Instagram.  He Zuckered it up with a billion fucking dollars.  That's $1,000,000,000.  And the moment he dropped that cash, hipsters fled the photo sharing site like rats on a sinking ship.  The hipsters were furious.  They instantly hated Instagram.  Suddenly their precious indy photo site had become another victim of capitalism.  How dare they sell out?!  This shit isn't cool anymore!  Worried about personal privacy, company integrity, and social status, the high-horse hipster herd left.

Perfect.  This opens the door for ShavedGolf to get involved.  Time to share some photos, bitches.

It starts off slow...

First I snapped a pic of my beer bottle...that was fun...what else needs it's picture taken?

How about that pole?

Look at that old train station!

What a quaint street!

I'm a fucking artist!

Put a bird on it!

Fuck yeah!  Now how about those clouds?!

Pretty clouds.

More clouds.

These fucking clouds are a gateway drug to crap.

Suddenly my mediocrity knows no bounds and I start taking pictures of my fucking shoes...

...my keys...

...and even my fucking blood donation!

In the end Instagram is no different than Twitter, Facebook, or fuck, even this blog.  I post shit.  People close to me pay attention so they know what's fresh. Acquaintances judge based on what little they know about me.  Strangers stumble upon it and critique harshly.  With each degree of separation the audience's interest decreases.  The content posted is always of most interest to the author, hipster or otherwise.

It's pointless.  It's dribble.  It's narcissistic.  It's social media!

So thank you once again, Zuckberg, for scaring off the hipsters and helping me waste time.  My content is the fucking bomb, and you help me share it with the world!

And if you want to follow, come find me on Instagram.  You know the name.

xoxo,
Shavedgolf

The Idiot's Guide to Hangover Recovery

Epic night, brah. Totally started that night off by going shot for shot. So jacked! Followed that shit up with a Jäger bomb. Wasn't gonna stop there! Went to that bar that pours liquor to the brim then splashes Monster on top. Don't puss out now. Kept the party going with a couple shotguns. Night's not over, dude! Nightcap was an AMF then we peaced the fuck out and took our taxi through the Taco Bell drive-thru. Totally epic.

Well guess what, dumbass. All that shit's poison so guess what you've got the next day. That's right, a receipt for a $200 bar tab, an upset tummy and a slamming headache. It's a massive hangover. Epic, brah.

You got your bitch ass into this mess, and now you gotta pull you bitch ass out. Fortunate for you, I binge drink for a living. I know the cures. I know the remedies. Stick with me, follow the plan, achieve greatness.

Start with the list.  These are the items to have prior to that epic evening.

The List...

• One bottle of water
• One 7.5 oz can of Coke
• One roll of toilet paper
• One box of wet wipes
• One $5 bill

Alright.  You've got the recovery items ready.  Now let's cover what not to do.


Don't...

...sit in bed until mid afternoon.  Maybe you feel paralyzed and it hurts to move, but doing nothing in bed is accomplishing little.  Plus it's a waste of a fucking day.  Get up.  Get moving.  Beat this shit.

...chug the water.  The damage is already done.  Your body is already dehydrated.  The best way to rehydrate is to do so slowly.  Guzzling water achieves very little as your body cannot process large quantities of water as fast as you can drink.  You'll end up pissing it all out.

...eat the greasiest morning meal.  We all crave grease after a night of drinking, but that gut bomb is only going to increase the pain and cause a brand new set of symptoms such as stomachache, bowel problems, and love handles.

...vow to never drink again.  That's not gonna help cure your stage four hangover, and ultimately you have neither the inclination or willpower to pull it off.  Plus you sound like an idiot.

...complain.  No one gives a shit.

Great.  We've laid down the ground rules.  Now let's cover the recover.


Do...

...brush your teeth.  The night of binge drinking and bar food chomping has your mouth tasting like tacos and vomit.  Clean that shit up with a little toothpaste.  That minty fresh feeling will make a world of difference.

...crack that bottle of water and sip.  As mentioned above, guzzling this bottle is useless.  Sip slowly.  Gurgle.  Alleviate some of the dry mouth.

...reach for the short can of Coke.  Why Coke?  It has the perfect balance of caffeine, sugar and sodium to aid your recovery.  There's a reason hospitals serve it and ultra marathoners drink it.  Coke works.  Why the short can?  Because you don't need that much, fatty.

...hop on the commode for judgement day. Your asshole has a date with destiny.  Sit down, hold on, enjoy the ride.  Now would be a very good time to whip out the TP and wet wipes. That monster shit has been brewin'.  The stomach stew is a nasty concoction of your poison of choice and the gut bomb you devoured along with. Don't force it.  Don't rush it.  This turd is a test of patience, endurance and tolerance.

...wipe.

...jump in the shower.  A little personal hygiene goes a long way.  You smell like the floor of a drunk tank and you're sticky like one, too. But the shower isn't just to smell rosy; the hot water and accompanying steam will feel delightful. Plus your asshole is still dirty from that hangover shit.  Wash it out.

...dress yourself.

...take the five spot to the Starbucks and order a tall drip and a turkey bacon breakfast sandwich.  Coffee is an obvious choice.  That'll wake you the fuck up.  The turkey bacon sandwich might seem odd.  Remember, you're hungry for grease but are trying to avoid over consumption.  Well this turkey bacon sandwich has just enough grease to satisfy the craving while not destroying your innards anymore than last night did.  Plus it's got egg on it; protein that will see you through the day.

...face the day.

That's it.  That's the secret recipe.

Saturday is gonna be pissed if Friday gets all the fun, so don't let that pesky hangover leave you in the dog house.  Get rid of that shit.   Get the list.  Follow the steps. Survive the weekend binge. Now get out there and recover like a pro.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf