See that painting above? Is it something I did in three minutes with a ruler and some sidewalk chalk? Or is it a famous painting hanging in a museum in San Francisco (future home of the Football Hall of Fame after Harbaughombardi rewrites the record books; I will be disappointed in anything less than 85-0 over the next five years after last week’s The Decision-esque fiasco)? I don’t want the suspense to boil over in here, so I will reveal the truth: it’s some famous painting hanging in a museum in San Francisco (ex-home of the single stupidest football coach I have ever seen – somebody should compile Singletary’s most moronic moves and put them on Youtube – probably would require parts 1-8. Legend. Nice guy though, thinks highly of God and stuff.)
Everyone who looks at modern art c0mes to the same conclusion: “shit, I could art it up better than that shit.” These feelings are particularly strong when looking at paintings that are just like one red line; I love when people are there interpreting the meaning of that shit. To me – no great purveyor of the arts, for sure – I believe art to be stuff (paintings, drawings, sculptures) that looks like – or evokes – real stuff…like dragons or fruits. But a single red line on a canvas? I could totally do that, and my artistic talents are pretty limited (I say that because I’m trying to be internet modest – I can draw like DMC. Especially owls, I can draw a pretty solid owl.) There are a few other talents/careers/whatnot that everybody feels they’d be killer at (and for me, “headline creator for free, not widely read website” wouldn’t be one of them – I spent like ten minutes debating the best title for this post and still ended up with a GD preposition at the end. I should’ve gone with “Five Things Everyone Thinks They’d Be Fucking At, Fucking Grammar Snob.”)
Five Things Everybody Thinks – No, Knows – They’d Be Fucking Great At
5. Modern Artist. I first started thinking about this when we were in Dallas last month – we checked out an exhibit of sculptures from some crazy texan who just welds random shit together, let’s it age for ten years, pours milk on it, welds some more shit to it, puts glitter on, and then decides what it all means. (Interestingly for FNL fans – and if you aren’t an FNL fan, please go fuck yourself, again – I’m pretty sure the guy Saracen is working with in season four is modeled after James Magee. Speaking of Saracen, he’s apparently back on a new show. Unfortunately, that show is on ABC and is by the fuckers that created Grey’s Anatomy and Private Practice, so it will surely be a gratuitous atrocity.)
4. Writer (or Blogger/Novelist/Screenwriter). Everyone knows, deep down, that they are funnier, smarter and more interesting than everyone else. Thus everyone has that great novel, hilarious blog, or high-dollar screenplay lurking just below the surface of their day-to-day tedium. Rarely, however, do people actually sit down and take a shot. But everybody thinks they can and, likely, will. (I could be a bit of a cautionary tale here, as I thought it was very, very, very likely that I would immediately vault to the top of the virtual internet heap once I unleashed my vivid life experiences and witty bon mots on the cyber audience. Now, almost two years in, I am still lagging espn.com and ladieshomejournal.com in eyeballs. (And, if I eliminated the “eyeballs” that are Romanian spambots, it’s most likely just me, my mom (Diddy – she said thanks for the thoughtful gifts!) and a handful of dedicated potentialzers that need a way to unwind after their Chatroulette sessions).
But don’t worry, you can totally step up where I fell short. That screenplay about the gyro vendor who goes on to become a famous concert pianist has legs. Seriously. (Although, that homeless guy with the radio voice who just got a job with the Cavs probably stole a lot of your thunder.) As for me, I have dialed down my expectations a bit for 2011; instead of a Ferrari I’m hoping to score a couple of Beefy Crunch Burritos – only $0.99 and they have Flamin Hot Fritos up in there! Delicious and nutricious. At least I’m assuming they’re pretty nutritious, they also have nacho cheese, sour cream and rice, so can’t be too bad for you.
3. Race Car Driver. There might be a little debate on this, as at least a handful of mouth-breathing NASCAR fans (No offense, Bro. Or JWinnie – you guys both totally breath through your noses) will try to say how difficult it is and how much of a sport it is. I disagree. Strongly. I can drive a car. Unlike, say, baseball – I cannot hit even an 80 mph fastball. I would likely be hard-pressed to tackle Adrian Peterson in the open field. But drive a car in a circle, fast? No fucking problem. If I can navigate the shitty corridor from Memphis to Little Rock at 80 mph (ironically, the same speed that killed my burgeoning baseball career) while avoiding all the meth dealers running from the cops and seventeen year olds racing to the hospital to have their third kids, I could drive a fucking race car. (This one I’m 100% confident in. If you bastards would have just bought some industrial machinery through the Amazon link – assuming those A-holes in Seattle would have actually given me credit for it – I’d have totally bought that Ferrari and catapulted myself into the middle-aged racing circuit that I’m sure exists.)
2. DJ. This is probably the one that most people have taken a shot at – iPods and shit have made it way too easy to demonstrate your great fucking taste in tunes that will ignite the dance floor. Fuck, I could rock any kinda party just by throwing on the Bee Gees station on Pandora (but that doesn’t count because then it’s some kind of algorithm or something deciding what sweet jams to play.)
Say, hypothetically, I’m an attendee at a killer party (of likeminded forty year olds rocking olive khakis and horizontally-striped button downs), when suddenly the DJ is stricken ill (likely a food allergy, or he doesn’t enjoy the sight of Dockers). “Chilly,” the hosts will say, “you are pretty down with the tunes, can you help us out here?” Assuming I modestly decline before ultimately obliging the host’s request, here’s how I’d open things up.
- “Rock The Bells” – LL Cool J (got to start old school)
- “Tom’s Diner” – DNA featuring Suzanne Vega (more on this later)
- “Rock You Like A Hurricane” – Scorpions (you gotta have some hair metal and I have no Winger on me)
- “The Power Is On” – The Go! Team (that one head-nodding tune from the NFL commercial, the one they play 1/5 as much as the Breesus commercial. Remind me to tell ya’ll about the time I met Arthur Blank (Falcons owner and the old guy awkwardly nodding his head in the commercial) at a charity auction and bid on some Keith Brooking gear because I felt bad for the dude. Funny story. Also, one of the few recent occasion where I felt sorry for a billionaire.)
- “Rooty” – Basement Jaxx (got to have some Jaxx)
And thats just for starters, son. More where that came from.
1. Speculator. Rather than just a top five list, this is an expansion of the wpz narrative. It’s gonna all tie together neatly, like Inception. (I haven’t seen Inception yet, so I’m hoping that’s true – wanted to be topical.) If you read this blog frequently, you are aware of at least three facts about me: 1) I’m something of a sommelier; 2) I’m not particularly clever; and 3) I’m always game to try an endeavor eight or so years after it’s fashionable or financially appealing. Which is why the Chillaxinator is starting a microscopic investment company with a partner. (And I mean microscopic – assets under management will be about the same amount as lunch for four at Chipotle.) It really won’t be a huge departure from how I’ve rolled the last two years, anyway, except now I can legitimately operate under the “small business proprietor” umbrella – no longer will I have to hide in the shadows with the other dregs of the internet.
And, like me, everybody thinks they’d be a great speculator; whether the millieu is comic books, houses, options, futures, vintage cheese wrappers, etc. everyone’s firm belief that they are smarter than everyone else usually leads to taking a shot or two at speculation. I guess that makes me a serial speculator. Don’t worry, if this doesn’t work out, I have another solid idea – I’ll buy some condos in Miami. Or I could start an eBay shipping store like in 40 Year Old Virgin. Sky’s the limit when you have.
(Note: I should hope that this entire site has served as a rolling list of Risk Factors, but don’t worry, our little company will very likely never be open to external investors. And I’ll still be around here. But I’m dropping the bling level down to “single bling” to reflect my newfound respectable position in society.)