Brain Matters Vol. 2

If you ever see me staring off into space, chances are I'm meandering down a long, winding path through the forest of my mind, getting easily distracted by small, woodland creatures I call "thoughts." But they can't stay in there forever, so I write them down for all my readers. And by "all my readers," I mean my mom. Hi mom!

So, without further ado, I give you my Brain Matt.....Ooh, look! A chipmunk!


***Inside my head, my inner monologue sounds nothing like my actual voice. It’s deeper, less Southern and way more well-spoken (as is evident by the grammatical abomination of that last sentence). Observe.

IN MY HEAD: Excuse me, Miss. I saw you across the room and couldn’t help but be in awe of your beauty. I was wondering if you’d care to join me for an evening of delectable food and invigorating conversation. And if you’d like, we could retire to my abode, where I have a bottle of 1787 Chateau Lafite on ice. Who knows what pleasures may await you there?

WHAT I ACTUALLY SAY: Hey lady. Yeah, you. Your hair smells like a grape Blow Pop and you’ve got most of your teeth. I can even look past that weird mole on your face, but you might want to get that thing looked at.

I got a hot plate and some pork ‘n’ beans back at my place. I don’t got no gas money, so we’re gonna have to hoof it. Or we can hang here. I got a box of Franzia and some Solo cups in my trunk next to the antifreeze. We can crack that cardboard puppy open and do it in the parking lot. That sound like somethin’ that’ll bristle your whiskers?

But in order to balance out the cosmos, someone, somewhere is walking around with my actual voice as their inner monologue. They’re also probably wondering why they sound like a pre-pubescent redneck with horrible grammar.


***I have a friend we call Grizz, because he could grow a beard faster than Grizzly Adams. I do think they should, at some point, have a GrizzOff to see who could grow one faster, but I think my man takes that competition.


I bring him up because, for the life of me, I cannot grow facial hair. My dad has a full beard. My brother has sported the facial hair. Yet I remain the follicly-challenged man-child that I am today. Did I miss a chromosome somewhere? Because I’m pretty sure that by age 26, I should be able to look like Cousin Itt from the Addams Family if I wanted to put the time and effort into it.

Don’t get me wrong, it does grow in some spots. I could have some mean mutton chops if I wanted to. The chin and neck areas are progressing nicely. My problem is that there’s no connection between the areas. It’s as if all these areas of potential growth are different continents, but their civilizations aren’t advanced enough to build roadways to bring them all together. Stupid face continents.

The result is me looking like Jackson Pollack threw some Nair at my face. A little bit here, a little bit there, but it ain’t exactly the Mona Lisa, if you know what I’m saying. You do? Good, because I don’t.


***I officially declare that there should be no more songs about Superman. It’s done.

Five for Fighting has that one really annoying song about Superman. Three Doors Down has that ridiculously overplayed song about Superman. R.E.M. had one about Superman. John Williams wrote the theme to Superman: The Movie.

Well, maybe that last one is justified, but you get the point. When Grizz and I were at Open Mic Night, a guy was singing his original song, which was decent (even though, as Grizz pointed out, his “chord progressions were non-conclusive,” whatever the hell that means). But then he gets to the chorus and it’s about how his dad is like Superman in his eyes.

I couldn’t help but groan. It’s so cliché I almost scratched out my own eyeballs just so I could plug my ears with them.

I propose that if you absolutely must use this analogy in song, pick a different superhero. Lord knows there are plenty of them.

Green Lantern? He had that nifty ring that could create green things out of thin air. And girls love jewelry that can create green things out of thin air, right? Right? Well, maybe not so much him.

What about Robin? You could write a song about an underage kid that lives with you and follows you around in tights. Or….maybe not.

Ok, fine. You can use Superman. Just stop putting numbers in your band name. It’s the least you can do for those of us who…..

Ooh, look! Another chipmunk!