We’re all depressed. Those who think they are not depressed are in denial. In the psychology world, that’s what they call a double-whammy. Not good. So if you know and admit that you are depressed, look on the bright side: at least you're aware that you're fucked up. More on the bright side some other time.
Ever want that cup of coffee in the morning to never ever ever end? Yup, that’s just your depression talking. Or that piece of chocolate with the creamy center? Are you infinitely sad when you tongue the last tooth and finally give up hope on finding another morsel of caramel clinging on? If the caramel can’t cling on any longer, you’re probably on your way out as well. Again, that’s just your depression talking. Coming in loud and clear. Ever say something to someone and then try to qualify it by saying “That’s just my depression talking?” I strongly advise against that.
Enough about the problem though, you say, what’s the solution? Well my friend if I knew that I would bottle it and sell it. I’d call it Sierra Negoda Davita Pale Ale. I jest. Actually I do know the answer. And that’s why we’re here. I’m interested in sharing the answer with you, I truly am. This answer will change everything for you—and not in the disappointing way the last thing you purchased that was supposed to change everything did. Or didn’t. Yes, this will work. And it’s simple, as all good solutions are. Here’s the thing though—I can’t just give it away. I mean I could, but that wouldn’t be intelligent or capitalistic enough on my part. I’ve got a family to look after. So I spent some time trying to come up with something I thought was fair. In order to do that, I asked myself “What would you pay for the answer to all your troubles?” It’s an easy question. I mean, if someone were to really give me the answer to all my troubles, then it wouldn’t matter what I paid because not having any money leftover wouldn’t be a problem, in theory. Nevermind all that though-- I’m not here to lay a heavy psychological sales-y trip on you. I hate that crap! Let’s just be practical.
I want to buy a boat. That’s a practical place to start. And if I’m going to buy a boat I figure let’s make it a grand boat. Something that can handle the rough seas, but also which I can look good on cruising the waterways while burning about eight dollars in gas every thirty seconds. Let’s say this boat costs $50,000. Plus the monthly gas and maintenance of $3,400. Dry docking in the winter, etc, etc—boat owners are with me here. The list is endless. The good news is that while this boat is expensive, there are a lot of you out there. The way I figure it is if each of you likely to respond to this gives me $1.67 free and clear, I can accomplish my goals. I hope that sounds fair. After all, let’s focus on what you’re getting here, and not get lost in my greed. For a mere $1.67 you’re getting the answer to all your troubles. Be honest, what number popped into your head back there in paragraph two about how much that answer would be worth? I bet it was more than $1.67. I’m just guessing.
Now, I’d love to just give you the answer right here and now, because I want you to start experiencing the glory of depression-free living RIGHT NOW. But I can’t. The world doesn’t work that way. It’s not your fault or mine, but it’s just reality. And we have to be realistic if we’re going to succeed. By the way that’s just a little HINT toward the solution I’m going to offer you. So if you liked that line about reality, if that made sense to you, then you should definitely send in the $1.67 free and clear, ASAP. There’s more where that came from, is all I’m saying.
I could go on and on but you either want the solution to all your troubles or you don’t, right? You’re that kind of person, aren’t you? The kind that goes out and makes things happen? The kind that sees the prize and does whatever necessary to get their hands on it? Aren’t you? I thought so. Your neighbor said you were, and after writing this letter, I can tell he/she was right!
Please send $1.67 free and clear to: Chris 'Laytes' Layton, 610 Westbury Rd, Charlotte, NC 28211 and I’ll reply back to you by email (include your email) with the answer to all your troubles.
*This is not a hoax. Look is up on Snopes.com-- you will NOT find it there.
With Love,
Laytes
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Think Like A Thief
I sure do try to think like a thief a lot. Sometimes it’s when I’m hiding my keys outside, or when I’m trying to figure out where in the car to hide something shiny. I assume everyone else is doing this as well? I sit holding my wallet, look around the interior of the car and try to get inside the mind of a small-time criminal. Or I slowly walk through my house, usually pausing in the kitchen, asking who the hell would look in a box of Bisquick for a checkbook?
I think if they find it, thieves will take your weed 100% of the time. They’re thrilled to find weed, because that actually cuts out the middle man in some regard. It’s the equivalent of finding money, and in some cases may even be preferable. On a weather-related note, are you convinced like me that thieves don’t work in the rain? That’s the wave of relief I get on a rainy day—welp, at least I don’t have to worry about the thieves today. I can leave expensive shit lying around in plain view all day long. This means I get to toss credit cards and social security numbers out on the counter willy-nilly, and live without the constant fear of being ripped off. And I think it’s a win-win. I don’t think thieves are pissed off when it rains. I think they’re more like construction works in this regard. They’re dying for it to rain so they can stay home all day, get drunk and not have to go out thieving. We all need a day off.
Admittedly, there are times when I fantasize myself the bad guy. Flip the script a little, you know? Like, maybe something has happened and now I’m the thief. And I usually have a car. My car. And I’m being chased. And while I’m being chased, all I’m really wondering about is whether I have what it takes to escape. Could I speed up fast enough to get the cop out of the rearview? We all know what comes next—take an unexpected turn, pull into the first driveway and kill your lights and engine! Whatever the scenario, it almost always involves me killing the lights and cutting the engine. If I nail that part, I get away. I do know that much. And when I escape in the scenario it’s a really cool time. Now, that’s distinuighsable from those times in my fantasy where the cop spots me. Here’s an uncomfortable moment that drags on forever. Sort of like in Hide and Go Seek when you know your opponent has found you, but they play dumb for a few moments before acknowledging you. Until eventually you emerge from your hiding place, embarrassed and disgraced.
I have nothing to escape from, really, so I’ll never find out the answers to some of these questions. I don’t live a life of adventure in that regard. I am a parent of two though. And I have certainly envisioned escaping from those little bastards. In fact, my best plan to date is quite clever. I quietly sneak off during a really intense game of Hide and Seek. My kids would look for me for hours before reality began to set in. By then I’d be far away. In fact, I think some twenty years later in grocery stores and public places, they’d still reserve a part off themselves to the notion that I might ‘pop out’ from inside a watermelon bin, or that they’d spot me crouched uncomfortably on aisle 6 behind the first row of beans. That’s just the way the human brain works-- we want to pick up where we left off when last things were good. We never truly give up hope for the occurrence of impossible events.
The nice thing about this idea is that it gives me an eternal ‘in’ if I ever decide to return to their lives. They’d spot me behind a bush in a park, run up and tag me, and it would be game on. Just like we never missed a step. “Holy shit Dad! That was the most intense round of Hide and Seek I’ve EVER played! You’re the all time champion, Dad! Look Dad, I can do a somersault! Hey Dad, want to come back to the house and meet my wife and kids?”
Friday, August 27, 2010
Who’s Reflection Is This, Anyway?
Have you seen the commercial for bladder control where the man is missing out on important photo opportunities with his buddies because he always has to leave to take a piss? This is interesting. He is playing golf and misses out on a group shot because he’s stuck in the 8th hole bathroom. Then he’s at a baseball game. Great photo of all his buddies, but his seat is…empty. Why? Because he’s in line at the pisser. This gentleman definitely needs some bladder control medicine, sure. But not before he gets some new fucking friends. The day my friends don’t wait for me to take a picture because I’m taking a leak is the day I kick ‘em in the nuts and wish them farewell. I advise he does the same.
Ahh, the world of advertising invites us into it’s perfect trap. Their world becomes ours. I’m fearful now that I’m missing out on the good things in life because I have to piss too often. Hell, most of the time they don’t even take the time to tell you what the medicine is for. They just strongly advise that you ask your doctor about Confusiplex. Then they show you how to ask your doctor. Why? Because the truth is they can’t get people to do what they want them to do. They can’t get the doctor to sell their products by name, so they decided fuck doctors, we’re going right to the people. But then they realized that people aren’t cooperating either—doesn’t matter how good your dick hardener pill is if the patient never asks for it and won’t fess up to the problem.
Here’s something. The easiest way to have a bladder control conversation with your doctor is to take a piss on the floor when she asks you the reason for your visit. That’s right. Just get it all out there on the table. If you’re there for some Xanax, instead of complaining about how stressful work is, why not put the doctor in a chokehold until he figures it out himself? Don’t let him go until he finishes writing out that prescription—and hold out for 6 months of refills and an extra Mg on the script.
For now though, we’re getting soft encouragement by way of 30 second commercials. Make ‘em feel comfortable talking to their doctors. Make ‘em feel comfortable about their inability to get their dick to resemble something other than a sock filled with warm pudding. Show them catching their reflection in the window on the way to the doctor’s office. Show them the internal conversation they don’t know they’re having. The one where their insecurities and embarrassment are getting in the way of their ultimate happiness. Getting in the way of a Crucial Conversation with a doctor who doesn’t give a shit about them anyway. It may work. People may start initiating the conversation themselves. And this would be good, because most doctors are socially retarded pieces of shit who can’t take a hint in the first place. But until the manufacturers of these drugs can sell us new friends and a hot piece of ass, even if we buy the medicine, the root of the problem is still unresolved. Where’s the pill for that?
Ahh, the world of advertising invites us into it’s perfect trap. Their world becomes ours. I’m fearful now that I’m missing out on the good things in life because I have to piss too often. Hell, most of the time they don’t even take the time to tell you what the medicine is for. They just strongly advise that you ask your doctor about Confusiplex. Then they show you how to ask your doctor. Why? Because the truth is they can’t get people to do what they want them to do. They can’t get the doctor to sell their products by name, so they decided fuck doctors, we’re going right to the people. But then they realized that people aren’t cooperating either—doesn’t matter how good your dick hardener pill is if the patient never asks for it and won’t fess up to the problem.
Here’s something. The easiest way to have a bladder control conversation with your doctor is to take a piss on the floor when she asks you the reason for your visit. That’s right. Just get it all out there on the table. If you’re there for some Xanax, instead of complaining about how stressful work is, why not put the doctor in a chokehold until he figures it out himself? Don’t let him go until he finishes writing out that prescription—and hold out for 6 months of refills and an extra Mg on the script.
For now though, we’re getting soft encouragement by way of 30 second commercials. Make ‘em feel comfortable talking to their doctors. Make ‘em feel comfortable about their inability to get their dick to resemble something other than a sock filled with warm pudding. Show them catching their reflection in the window on the way to the doctor’s office. Show them the internal conversation they don’t know they’re having. The one where their insecurities and embarrassment are getting in the way of their ultimate happiness. Getting in the way of a Crucial Conversation with a doctor who doesn’t give a shit about them anyway. It may work. People may start initiating the conversation themselves. And this would be good, because most doctors are socially retarded pieces of shit who can’t take a hint in the first place. But until the manufacturers of these drugs can sell us new friends and a hot piece of ass, even if we buy the medicine, the root of the problem is still unresolved. Where’s the pill for that?
Friday, August 13, 2010
Late Christmas Letter
Well, it’s that time of year again. The time where I take a day off work to get plastered while taking down the Christmas tree—or what remains of it—and I figured I’d share my thoughts as my buzz kicks in.
My goodness. If we are to believe the“365 Subtle Ways To Emotionally Scar Your Loved Ones” calendar that sits on my desk, then it looks like yet another year has slipped us by. I figured rather than make a round of tiring phone calls eating up our minutes telling stories of holiday excess, I’d send out a good old fashioned letter. It feels so good to take pen to paper, even if you are just typing on a computer.
I don’t know about you, but if I had to sum it up, I’d say it was a year of…Joy. For those of you without children in your lives, that may be difficult to comprehend, but for every day spent fretting about losing the house, we were lucky enough to have tireless and abundantly cheerful 5 and 2 year olds who run to embrace you and wash away your worries. Sometimes that came with a stiff though unintentional punch to the nuts, but after a while you learn to tuck and crouch in anticipation. Also, the athletic cup I got for my birthday (June 5th everybody!) didn’t hurt, either.
In my eternal desire to find the silver lining in the sequence of financial and personal failures we’ve experienced, I decided the kids’ ignorance as to the reality of our situation was an opportunity. Heck maybe if I tried hard enough, I too could find bliss. And I did. Thanks to off-brand sinus medicine washed down with a few stiff liquor drinks. Change what you can and screw the rest. The liquor? Oh never you mind, next week Matt Lauer will be telling all of us that 3+ shots a night of cheap vodka is the elixir of youth. THEN who will be the one laughing, hmm?
OK, updates. I’ll start with Parker, our youngest. Mostly she babbles nonsensically and continues to run up an obnoxious diaper bill. Next! Just kidding, that doesn’t make for a good holiday newsletter. When she’s not refusing to nap or throwing a tantrum in public, she does appear to have taken a keen interest in the dog’s privates. Over the last 12 months she’s blown bubbles at them, prodded them with the princess wand, and even painted one of his testicles the color purple—we’ve since put the oil paints on a high shelf. If we could keep the snot off of Parker’s face long enough to snap a photo I’d include one, but some chores aren’t worth the small payout.
Avery, our 5 year old, is finally coming out of her shell a little bit. This was a tough year for her because she started kindergarten. I suppose we all have our own definition of ‘tough.’ With the multitude of inter-racial children in the classroom, she apparently had some adjusting to do. After she finished decorating our house for Kwanzaa and we completed her three week crash course on making baklava, we feel like we’re all finally up to speed. Unfortunately, for each cultural step forward she took, she took a step backward in potty training. This was unexpected and a genuine pain in the ass. Just when you think they’re on their way in the world, they take a dump on the carpet at a neighbor’s holiday party. A few visits to a child counselor later and we feel she’s back on track—we’ve only just begun the project, but‘Family Fecal Art’ is a Godsend.
Genny, my adoring wife and the mother of these two beautiful darlings, is really loving her new-found freedom now that Parker spends her days at daycare and Avery spends hers at kindergarten. Genny’s worked hard for it, and I think if she wants to spend her free time watching reality tv and abusing prescription drugs, she’s earned the right to do so. My fear is she’s either going to burn down the house, or run out of doctors in this town willing to play the “I lost my prescription” game. Call me crazy, but I don’t have the confidence in the Canadian pharmaceutical mail order system that some folks do. Oh well—with each new year comes new challenges, and we will embrace them, even if it means bending the rules a little bit to keep mommy’s medicine cabinet in good supply.
Me? Well, for me it’s just more of the same. I spent the year trying to complain less, which was tough for me. I tried to appreciate everything and everybody, even when they made it a challenge to do so. My approach is simple—you only get one trip around this crazy big box consumer world of ours, and if you get stuck in the Electronics Department you never get to enjoy the Garden Center, if that makes sense at all. I can honestly say that 2009 was the year I was saved by Rachel Ray.
I could go on for quite some time, but there are new memories to make and I want to hop to it. I hope you and yours are doing well—we’d love to have you for a visit so long as everybody who comes is healthy and doesn’t expect much in the way of entertainment.
Chris
My goodness. If we are to believe the“365 Subtle Ways To Emotionally Scar Your Loved Ones” calendar that sits on my desk, then it looks like yet another year has slipped us by. I figured rather than make a round of tiring phone calls eating up our minutes telling stories of holiday excess, I’d send out a good old fashioned letter. It feels so good to take pen to paper, even if you are just typing on a computer.
I don’t know about you, but if I had to sum it up, I’d say it was a year of…Joy. For those of you without children in your lives, that may be difficult to comprehend, but for every day spent fretting about losing the house, we were lucky enough to have tireless and abundantly cheerful 5 and 2 year olds who run to embrace you and wash away your worries. Sometimes that came with a stiff though unintentional punch to the nuts, but after a while you learn to tuck and crouch in anticipation. Also, the athletic cup I got for my birthday (June 5th everybody!) didn’t hurt, either.
In my eternal desire to find the silver lining in the sequence of financial and personal failures we’ve experienced, I decided the kids’ ignorance as to the reality of our situation was an opportunity. Heck maybe if I tried hard enough, I too could find bliss. And I did. Thanks to off-brand sinus medicine washed down with a few stiff liquor drinks. Change what you can and screw the rest. The liquor? Oh never you mind, next week Matt Lauer will be telling all of us that 3+ shots a night of cheap vodka is the elixir of youth. THEN who will be the one laughing, hmm?
OK, updates. I’ll start with Parker, our youngest. Mostly she babbles nonsensically and continues to run up an obnoxious diaper bill. Next! Just kidding, that doesn’t make for a good holiday newsletter. When she’s not refusing to nap or throwing a tantrum in public, she does appear to have taken a keen interest in the dog’s privates. Over the last 12 months she’s blown bubbles at them, prodded them with the princess wand, and even painted one of his testicles the color purple—we’ve since put the oil paints on a high shelf. If we could keep the snot off of Parker’s face long enough to snap a photo I’d include one, but some chores aren’t worth the small payout.
Avery, our 5 year old, is finally coming out of her shell a little bit. This was a tough year for her because she started kindergarten. I suppose we all have our own definition of ‘tough.’ With the multitude of inter-racial children in the classroom, she apparently had some adjusting to do. After she finished decorating our house for Kwanzaa and we completed her three week crash course on making baklava, we feel like we’re all finally up to speed. Unfortunately, for each cultural step forward she took, she took a step backward in potty training. This was unexpected and a genuine pain in the ass. Just when you think they’re on their way in the world, they take a dump on the carpet at a neighbor’s holiday party. A few visits to a child counselor later and we feel she’s back on track—we’ve only just begun the project, but‘Family Fecal Art’ is a Godsend.
Genny, my adoring wife and the mother of these two beautiful darlings, is really loving her new-found freedom now that Parker spends her days at daycare and Avery spends hers at kindergarten. Genny’s worked hard for it, and I think if she wants to spend her free time watching reality tv and abusing prescription drugs, she’s earned the right to do so. My fear is she’s either going to burn down the house, or run out of doctors in this town willing to play the “I lost my prescription” game. Call me crazy, but I don’t have the confidence in the Canadian pharmaceutical mail order system that some folks do. Oh well—with each new year comes new challenges, and we will embrace them, even if it means bending the rules a little bit to keep mommy’s medicine cabinet in good supply.
Me? Well, for me it’s just more of the same. I spent the year trying to complain less, which was tough for me. I tried to appreciate everything and everybody, even when they made it a challenge to do so. My approach is simple—you only get one trip around this crazy big box consumer world of ours, and if you get stuck in the Electronics Department you never get to enjoy the Garden Center, if that makes sense at all. I can honestly say that 2009 was the year I was saved by Rachel Ray.
I could go on for quite some time, but there are new memories to make and I want to hop to it. I hope you and yours are doing well—we’d love to have you for a visit so long as everybody who comes is healthy and doesn’t expect much in the way of entertainment.
Chris
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Standup Links
Links to a recent show where I did 15 minutes...
1 of 2: http://bit.ly/aKSwkr
2 of 2: http://bit.ly/amlnl0
Hope you enjoy them.
1 of 2: http://bit.ly/aKSwkr
2 of 2: http://bit.ly/amlnl0
Hope you enjoy them.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Coffee
Coffee saved my life again this morning. Either that or I over-exaggerate.
I'm sauteing green peppers and onions just for the smell of it. I currently have no intention of eating them.
Last night I came home drunk and fumbled through the kitchen making peanutbutter and ritz crackers while expertly navigating the self-closing kitchen drawers. This is where rich meets poor.
I dreamt last night that my wife bought a ShakerWeight. or "The Shaker" or whatever it is called. I also dreamt she told me I was good with the tongs in the kitchen. These things are just true.
I was hammered last night when I left the bar, so I took a cab. I swear the cabbie was drunk. So in theory there was one less drunk driver on the road, but I may have been aiding and abetting by giving him a fare.
This concludes Saturday's initial thoughts. Enjoy the weekend.
I'm sauteing green peppers and onions just for the smell of it. I currently have no intention of eating them.
Last night I came home drunk and fumbled through the kitchen making peanutbutter and ritz crackers while expertly navigating the self-closing kitchen drawers. This is where rich meets poor.
I dreamt last night that my wife bought a ShakerWeight. or "The Shaker" or whatever it is called. I also dreamt she told me I was good with the tongs in the kitchen. These things are just true.
I was hammered last night when I left the bar, so I took a cab. I swear the cabbie was drunk. So in theory there was one less drunk driver on the road, but I may have been aiding and abetting by giving him a fare.
This concludes Saturday's initial thoughts. Enjoy the weekend.
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