Chris

If you'd prefer more cohesive ramblings than this random mess (though still packed with irritating college words learned from flashcards during my daily Tony Little-stride-machine workouts.), then visit: celzinga.blogspot.com. It's a bit dated, but eerily prescient--like a half-assed Nostradamus with a touch of the Downs Syndrome). For instance, Anna Nicole? I predicted it would be self-induced. With a Slim Jim. In the pantry. So, 1 out of 3 isn't bad. Moving on. I have a particular aversion for Tina Yothers. I enjoy drinking too much to ever fall victim to alcoholism. I am worldly enough to realize that my childhood sighting of an aroused merman was in all probability just an off-course narwhal. I can pull off wearing a pink shirt. I rarely attempt wearing pink shirts. I no longer fantasize about the forest moon of Endor. I foster many theories (Of note: 35% of redheaded males are named Andy; 12% Scott. Additionally: Junior highers pictured in the "new students" section of a yearbook are most likely to be the token delinquents, dregs and burnouts of the pending high school years; but I've no time to expound upon the specific social catalysts involved). My cinema of choice is not the medley of Air Bud manifestos, unlike my slow-witted nephew, Doug. I find relativity relatively perplexing. Being a self-anointed arbiter of chic, I propose a long overdue paisley resurgence. It pains me that I cannot claim a doppelganger-like resemblance to Tony Danza circa '86. I like to get spacier than astronauts. I am sometimes aloof. I'm of the opinion that Miracle Whip is the mother of all euphemisms. I've recently learned that every single cell in our bodies is replaced every seven years by another; thus rendering ourselves a veritable fountain of flesh. In contrast to some, I don't believe the age of irony is dead; autumnal perhaps. I'm wary of great whites and dubious clowns. I seek and prefer the company of revved up visionaries (or at least apathy-combating ponderers) who conspire against the conformity-tinted plexiglass ceiling of mediocrity: Ennui has his allies, we must enlist ours. If I could be anywhere at the moment I'd be wrapped in swaddling clothes in the arms of a virgin, on the sun dappled shores of the Mediterranean. I like to get tight on absinthe and perform vaudevillian switchblade tricks. I also have an unparalleled collection of Will Clark autographs- if that's your thing. And I pity you if not. (As a disclaimer, I'm not nearly as self-absorbed as this profile may allude).