yeah, college, wooo.

This is how I graduated from college.


Here is a copy of the proposal that I submitted. The intent was to maximize the amount of "fuck you," and minimize the likelihood of failure. In those terms... it's a banana scooting across a kitchen counter.

You Tube Link
Videobomb Link

The Non-Heroic Tale of Comfort Tag: a true story.

If you ever need to get rid of stupid pets that you were never supposed to have in the first place, one option will always remain:


Pictured below is the former Comfort Tag. The original plan was to release him into the wild and let Darwin do his worst on this evolutionary dead end. True story: guinea pigs aren't good pets, they aren't good animals, they aren't good topics for blog postings, they aren't even good food rendering factories. They are uninteresting, unintelligent, unaffectionate, and unviable as a species without human feeding, changing, selective breeding, and distribution.

But, the option always exists to dress them up as estranged wizards and drop them off on a shelf at one of your dozen local Wal-Marts and leave them there. (See figure below.)


Be sure to leave a note with your little wizard lest one of the bumbling cases for eugenics that inevitably stumbles upon it doesn't recognize by the tiny purple cloak what's up. If at all possible include an audio version of the note because there is only a 1 in 7 chance that this person will be able to read.
(Click the image for the larger, readable version of the note) (Audio coming for non-readers, but there's no way for them to know that, so if you're friends with any, please let them know by speaking to them.)


So no one knows what became of ole' Comfort Tag. Maybe he's on his way to Ft. Meyers, Florida to meet my old neighborhood pal Doug Kinsey. Maybe he's still there between those cans of baseballs because another thing: guinea pigs barely move. At best he caused a stir; maybe found a home. (God help the lameness that is to descend upon THAT household.) But the important thing is that he is not here anymore, and because of that, Jake's room doesn't suck as much.

commutability extrapolated

Mo'problems have already been proven to equal mo' money. see previous post.
but we here at YTM don't believe in stopping. (We tried to once; we didn't.) So today we are here to further extrapolate this mathematical proof; extrapolate it right into the ground.

IF: time = money

AND: money = problems

THEN: time = money = problems

ALSO: time = space

AND: space = the place

ALSO: time = a wastin'

PLUS: time = a changin'

SO: problems are a wastin', therefore money is a changin', and time is the place to do it.

AND IF: place = space = time = money = problems = a wastin'

THEN: We should all be very rich people very soon.

Thanks math!

what you've just described is a used condom.

"You find it wherever you look, the body as a prison and there's the rabbinical student dying of love for a woman engaged to somebody else so his spirit inhabits her body, slipts in when she's asleep and her body's unoccupied and the rabbi comes in to exorcise this dybbuk, who may be having a grand time in there."

-William Gaddis, Agapé Agape, Page 28

P Diddy is better than the Beatles because he's more than half alive.

Recall Puff Daddy; recall his hit.

Quoth the Puff:

I'll never know what
they want from me it's like the
mo' money we come upon
the mo' problems we see
(enjambment added)

Now:
FACT: IF A = B THEN B = A
REASON: Commutability

-THUS-

IF "MO' MONEY" = "MO' PROBLEMS" THEN "MO' PROBLEMS" = "MO' MONEY"

If the mo' money we come upon, the mo' problems we see ...
The mo' problems we come upon, the mo' money we see!

RESULT: Life is hacked.

The Beatles once famously said that "all you need is love." They were wrong. Horribly, wastefully, unprofitably wrong. That's why two of them are dead.

All you need is problems.

Find yourself some problems - mo' problems than you have. Next day, your bank account will be squared, even cubed. Remember, this is a geometric proof. If it fails, take it up with Hippasus of Metapontum.

for the birds... that was the idea anyway.

So not everything we do can go off without a hitch, or even multiple hitches as in this case. The plan seemed straight forward enough. To kick off "Burn the Bridges Tour 2K6" Matt and I agreed to start both literally and metaphorically with a bridge. The idea had been in our heads for years to hang something from long strings off of the Talmadge Bridge over the Savannah River, so today we settled upon bread. Theoretically it would attract lots of birds and turn the bridge into a giant bird feeder. Like I said, straight forward. We lucked out and found a ton of bread first thing at Ole' Trusty Kroger Dumpster. We then headed over to the park to string up the various loaves and buns.






So we are now pros at stringing up some bread. The Job offers should be rollin in any minute now. We loaded the bread strings on the bike with a twinkle in our eyes and threw in a high five for good measure. That high five was one of the last things that went ok.

Matt suffered a flat tire halfway up the bridge. As the cars sped by I acted as if I too were afflicted with bike problems. We had no trouble unloading the bread but hanging them off the edge was another story altogether; a story that I am currently telling. The string was far too tangled to unwind so the bread merely hung prostrate just off the edge of the bridge. I had to run back to Matt to grab scissors to cut loose the twist ties which had become ensnared in the mess of line.


NOT WHAT HAPPENED!


More like what happened.

So I sped off. Matt got picked up by the heat. And while I was biking back across the bridge uphill and directly into the wind, Matt was busy denying all knowledge of the situation, gently sidestepping federal charges. He shot me a nod and a wave as I sped by in the opposite direction, wheezing, sweating, and out of breath.

We caught up in a parking lot, and as we were about to head home the cops rolled up again. The hopped out and popped their trunk laying our string of bread out on the ground before us.

"What the hell Guys?" they say.
"Why did you lie to us back there Steven? (Matt) You've got bread in your bag."

"Honestly we were trying to make a big birdfeeder. You know, for the birds."

"Well why didn't you just say that. Instead you lied, and that's obstruction. I could arrest you for that now."

With a well played "Art School Thing" card we got off with that nice little warning you saw back yonder. The cops were, by and large, understanding; seemed like old troublemakers themselves. We shared some stories, some laughs, some glances. It also turns out I don't have any outstanding warrants. All in all I believe we each learned some valuable lessons about life. AND Matt and I didn't get arrested.



Note: Not the actual cop. I don't know who those kids are.

Also some birds may yet be fed because the cops only found one line, and didn't feel like going back for the other one.

So what did we learn? Basically, if you are doing something incredibly stupid and absurd, just tell the truth, because no one knows what to do about it. Words to live by.

...And the Burning of the Bridges has just begun.

Social Responsibilty HO!

New patches by Matt!

full body reatards

An explanation will soon be presented in the form of a music video, but until then it's...









FULL BODY REATARDS!

the long, proud history of "ball"

A game exists called simply, "ball." It is played by only two people at only one spot in the world. This one spot is the only place it can be played. These two people are the only two who can play it. There are an infinite amount of possible iterations of the game, but each would be different, and none this particular game of "ball." There is no competition. There is no goal. There is no score. The rules that do exists are vague and unspoken. Time exists only as an element of coherence; otherwise it is inconsequential. The objective of the game is to have as much fun as possible. It is less of a game and more of an opportunity for spontaneity. It is chaos and random chance given over to sport. It is the essence of play; the unplannable, the unaccountable. This particular game has been played for nearly a year and a half. This game will soon be over; never to be played again. A new game will develop in a new place. The goal will be the same; to have as much fun as possible.









I think we all could stand to learn alot from "ball." Why should life be any different?

pictures by Paul.

directions to the shipyard

image by Andy. 2005.

Terry, what have you gotten yourself into?

image by Andy. 2005.

future history lesson

If people exist and there is space and things. (Basically, as long as there are nouns to verb, you will never run out of things to do.) Here is an example:













This was the first meeting of the Human Beings back in February. Start your own chapter. Erect bigger and better things. Change the world. Have the fun!

a message from pastor rodge

Heart and face find common ground in Jesus.



Found on a church across the street from our house in Savannah.

irreversible brain damage

Attention audiophiles, internet users with ears, and deaf people alike - a new age of 'musical' enlightenment is upon us. The following audio clip is presented as a true 'mortal challenge' to anyone who is in need of testing their abilities against a theme song from a bargain bin VHS movie of the same name. Make special note of the lyrics, strained out by what is described on the box as an 'entourage of down's syndrome.' In case it's not obvious: tense action movie = tense action anthem. This mortal challenge...has begun.

Challenge your mortailty!

new words for new things, part 2

A continuing series of names for acts that none of us will ever, ever try.

Stomping Down the Carpet

In which a wife clamps her husband's pubic hair to a table and administers a footjob during which the husband's pubic hair is ripped out. DESTRUCTIVE!

Acid Rain

In which two enemies double penetrate a woman and the weaker of the two (having been made to settle for the vagina when his muscular nemesis "called the ass") ejaculates first and then withdraws his penis - leaving semen to drip down his foe's prone testicles. PRECIPITATORY!

Giving Pounds

In which two best friends fist the same college girl and the skinnier friend (having been made to settle for the vagina because his muscular buddy "called the ass") silently says: "even though I'm jealous, we're still best bro's and will be forever" by giving his friend some pounds (or knocking his fist against the fist of his friend in an urban variation on the handshake). RESPECTFUL!

See also: new words for new things, part 1

education: a case study

Matt
Matt holds a Master's Degree in Illustration - and is a master of debt accumulation. Too destitute to attend free events, Matt sucks bacterial life from under rocks and prays that he will be dead within the month.

Andy
Andy is about the receive a BFA. Being Andy is like eating white bread while floating in a beige pool of warm water. He is the mean, the median, and the mode. Andy is the sum of America divided by two - and anti-aliased. That means he's got no edge.

Jake
Jake dropped out of college this year - and the babes dropped out of not being in his life. He takes time out from powerboat racing to write the great American novel while grinding down the Alps on a custom rail that he built from his collection of antique Ferraris.

up for grabs

Are you the shittiest R&B group in the world? Have you recently been thinking that you need to find a catchy and precise way of detailing exactly what you're all about? Have you been struggling to combine a reference to a roadside assistance company with the type of tender feelings and raw emotion that you traffic in on a daily basis? If you answered yes to all of these questions then you can go ahead and have this. In fact, you can have it anyway. I think it's one of the worst ideas I've ever had. I won't even care. Take it and decimate your career. If all goes well, you will never record another album...and you'll die cold and alone because you're probably a moron.

Nah, who am I kiddin? It's the geniuses that die cold and alone. Morons die comfortably in enormous mansions that they bought with all the money they made off of their soulful chart toppin' hits.

it starts with a "what" and ends with "the fuck"

"When look, was light and now 'twas as flasher, now moren as the glaow. Ah, in unlitness 'twas in very similitude, bless me, 'twas his belted lamp!"
-Finnegan's Wake, Page 404

Who needs comedians when there's James Joyce?

takes to the water like a box spring mattress

What is it about water that is so compelling? In an attempt to find out, Matt and I set fourth to do the most logical thing we could think of: build a raft out of a box spring mattress, some styrofoam, duct tape, and an inflatable kids pool toy, and take it out on the river. We had this hunch that air floats, and we wanted to make sure. So from detritus yoinked from various dumpsters, and some paddles (hands down the most legitimate part of the entire endeavor) made from fan blades and sanded pieces of wood, we proceeded to carry/bike what was to develop over the course of the afternoon into a fine river ferring vessel. (Fine being used with some liberty in this case, but honestly, she had some float in her.)



Within an hour we had cast off into the "ahem" black, toxin-riddled, death-bringing, eye-burning, skin condition-inciting, Savannah River. Approaching the North Bank we shared a nice exchange with a Port Authority agent who stood cooly with arms crossed staring down our approaching flotsam.

"Ya'll can't dock that boat here!"

"First of all Ma'm this is NOT a boat! ...It's a box spring mattress."

"Well whatever it is, ya'll can't dock it here!"

"We understand. We don't intend to invade your shores, merely to prove a point to ourselves. Mainly that this can be done." (With little to no preparation, experience, money, or sense.)

We tagged the dock and shoved back off. I do think we took the time to laugh and high-five. No, I'm certain we did.

Having speculated 45 minutes to paddle across and back, we were quite tickled to find ourselves accomplishing the passage in a leisurely 18. The sunset over the middle of the river; illuminating our minimal effort. We waved at some passing boats. Shouted challenges at them, hoping to incite a race, which, sadly, we never got the opportunity to lose.



So what did Matt and I learn that day? Well nothing about water, just that the Savannah River is petulant. Knew that. That sunsets are great? I knew that too, but this one WAS pretty special. That we can successfully cross a river on garbage? Oh yeah, that's the life lesson there. And once again reaffirming that troublesome little bit of philosophy: "If you don't do it, it won't have happened." I swear that one has got me into more trouble and had me more fun than anything else I've ever thought of.


happy sailing everyone!

why my ex-girlfriend couldn't finish cryptonomicon

The proof.











...and no one's ex-girlfriend ever will.

art crime

HEARE IS ANN ESSAY AYE WORTE ON THEE SUBJEKT OV AHRT CRYME. YEW CANN READ IT BECUZE YEW WUNT TO REED EVEERYIETHANG. (how's that for capatilization and perfect spelling jake? no seriously, the essay is kind of well-written.)

Art Crime

between jupiter and uranus

Spelling errors send my blood sugar a-droppin'. If a writer won't burden himself with a spell check (“F7” in OpenOffice.org Writer, for god's sake!), then I'll be damned if I'll be burdened with a reading of his work (during which my eyes freeze in place every paragraph to grapple with “teh” or “bset” or “availibel”).

Kamikaze Console: Saturn and the Fall of Sega, Sam Pettus' enticingly titled novella, won a full-on view of my rare “other cheek” (which I grudgingly turned on its blatant misspellings). While the typographical jumbles (bane of Google) strain the credibility of this self-declared “scribe,” his sources (mostly Dave's Sega Saturn Page and old issues of Next Generation) are sterling, and the story itself is a gripping one: good enough to overcome the tiny illustrations and a telling that's often prosaic at best (not to mention a color scheme that left my corneas in ruins).

Avoid Mr. Pettus' epic like a chigger if you're looking to ward off nastologia: anyone who was shocked at Sega's “sneak attack” launch back in '95 may find themselves choking with remorse. As the vast weight of Sony (and, later, Microsoft) bears down on poor Sega and its brightly-cast dream, one can't keep themselves from feeling the pain of the executives, developers, and gamers left buried in the ruins of the Sega Scream.

I couldn't keep myself from imagining a world in which Sega's mistakes had somehow been avoided. If Sega had gone with the simpler design, than maybe, somehow, they could've beaten Sony (as they had crushed NEC a few years before).

Maybe, lacking those mainstream brand names, gaming could've stayed in its niche a bit longer. If the arms race had been between Nintendo and Sega – companies with brilliant game designers on staff – then perhaps this upcoming console war would never have been labeled a “battle for the living room.”

Maybe one console would've empowered Yu Suzuki and the other would've served as Miyamoto's playground. The “war” would come down to two rival geniuses, and the mainstream could've come in as the games got good.

a flash game called hypnosis

As an odd counterpoint to Andy's tampon post, I urge you to try out a game called Flow. It's the biofeedback version of Geometry Wars in which the egg runs around and gobbles up sperm. It claims to be an MFA thesis, and as such, is far more interesting than my abandoned thesis, which compares Andy's inability to spell with his inability to capitalize.

Flow (In-browser flash or free download)

old stories, old timer, old brain

here are three stories i wrote a while ago, a year or so methinks. They are old, unread since then, unedited since then and yeah yeah, enough blubberin' and appologizin' they're here. i wrote them. you can read them, or not.

the first concerns a golden retriever and the end of all time.
Golden Retriever
the second is a bellowy, blustery, overly verbose rant from a bookstore employee.
Employee of the Week
and the third is a very short rant.
Thunder and Lightning Have Passed

Monuments to Human Achievement Series, No.1

this...THIS IS ART! never before in all the annals of human experience has a more perfect rendering of a "hariy three-legged lopsided egg lookin' thing," been produced. The hairy three-legged lopsided egg lookin' thing or "HTLLELT" has re-appeared time and time again throughout history. Every major civilization has had their own interpretation of the HTLLELT. A reference is made to it in a obscure passage in the Bible where Jesus is described as being "hairy, tri-legged, and feasting on eggs." It is an intentionally vague passage, but the reference is apparent. The Mayans were also a civilization.

this particular piece, which perfectly epitomizes all the classical characteristics of a HTLLELT: the hairiness, the three legs, the lopsidedness, and the resemblance of a vaguely egg-shaped form, was discovered recently in an ancient pad of newsprint. it was the only such image of it's type, and it is thought that the artsit gave up drawing altogether after creating something so pure.

(note: this is the best jake can do. this is the ACTUAL extent of his artistic abilities. this IS supposed to be a real thing. jake did, in fact, give up drawing shortly after this. that part was true, if you thought anything else was plausible, please send a check for $500 to Andrew Lyman. P.O. Box 278. Savannah, GA. 31401

the good news is; you're not pregnant

new words for new things

Young Team Manager is proud to make public the new sex terms we've been kicking around the office.

Biting the Curb

In which, while tonguing the ass of the girl you love, your jerk friend sneaks in and kicks you in the back of the head. DEVASTATING!

The Terrible Samson

In which, while your long-haired partner sleeps on his or her stomach (which he or she is prone to do because it gives them an added sense of security and reduces snoring and masks drooling), you ejaculate in that long, exposed hair and rub the ejaculate-ridden strands in his or her unsuspecting face. SURREPTITIOUS!

John Wilkes Booth

In which you locate a stranger sitting on a park bench and ejacute wildly on the side of his or her head before jumping off the nearest balcony and screaming: "sic semper tyranus." HISTORICAL!

See also: new words for new things, part 2

million dollar manager who is young and a manager

Screenplays are the only valid form of writing - all text written before screenplays is nonsense. As proof, I am writing the ultimate screenplay. I will serialize it here so as to attract the sort of funding that this film will require: between the sets, the CG, and the Star Trek licenses, Joel Silver money is going to be needed.

Joel, if you're reading this, please read:

Young Team Manager, Act I

nail

by: Andy Lyman



     I punctured my belly on the head of an exposed nail today. It was sticking halfway out of the drywall at the base of the stairs. I stumbled on the last step and fell onto it; punched a hole right in me. When I pulled myself off of it, thick black blood poured out of the new opening in my body. I could smell my insides. They smelled like my lunch. I started to vomit. I threw up all over the wall. Some of it ran down my face, down my chest, and into the hole in my stomach. It burned really bad. I ripped the hole open even further in a panicked attempt to clean it out. My hands were covered in blood and vomit. My pants were soaked. I reached into me and scooped out some of my flesh. I held it up and examined it. It didn’t look like anything really; just a mess, just a mass. I put it into my mouth. I just let it sit there at first; contemplating the flavor. It tasted like meat. It was meat. I am meat. I chewed and swallowed it. It would pass by the spot it had been removed from on its journey back through me. I plodded back up the stairs and went to bed. I felt so tired. I immediately fell asleep.
     I dreamt that a snake had laid eggs inside me. Making my intestines into a nest. The eggs eventually hatched and seven tiny snake babies came slithering out from my stomach. It made me proud. I felt what I imagine it must feel like to be a mother. My little darlings. They responded to my call and followed the source of my voice all the way down into my lungs. They settled down and made a home there. I will keep them safe always. Tomorrow I will quit smoking. For you my dears.
     The smell is unbearable. My eyes burn. My ears are ringing. The blood has dried and the sheets are now stuck to my skin. Since removal of the sheets is out of the question, I will remove my skin, like my children. They grow so quickly. Their dried, cast-off skins fill the inside of my lungs. It hurts to breathe. I peel my skin off starting at my toes. It comes off easily; like clothing. I hold it up in front of me, fingering the hole in the abdomen. I can see right through it. I toss it over the edge of my bed. I want to go downstairs and make some breakfast, but my babies are unhappy about something and start to bite the inside of my lungs. They spit their venom deep into my capillaries. I breathe their poison. I collapse on the floor; blood falling out of my body. My seven children come sliding out through my mouth. Like rats from a sinking ship, they know it’s time to move on.

the heroic tale of mt. forsyth

"mountains just begged to be climbed."

"yeah, and pie just begs to be ate! what of it butt-life?"

"well... the ground ya know?"

"of course! fuuuuck! it's just like...AN OPPOSITE MOUNTAIN!"

"yep."
(note:the previous exchange was never exchanged.)

but this was.
a challenege was issued...

two brave heroes, who also issued the challenge, decided to do the thing that they had thought of.

what at first seemd a lonely climb up the mighty summit...

turned into a perilous race (that kid is a f-ing showoff and i hate him!) up the mighty summit... against TIME!

and the rapidly melting icee pops.

beards are great as "great flavor bags that hold flavor in them!"© i just made that up. sell it!

the kid in the background fell off the mountain and died. two or three times i think...

fatigue sets in rapidly after you fininsh doing something hard.

...but we all had an allright time anyway.


seriously, thanks to barret, and grnt, and steevie, and mike mike. we could have done it with out you guys, but hey.

sometimes things just come together; like a fat guy and a skinny guy who are supposed to be friends but they still fight constantly

manifesto of the wilderness

We must recreate the wilderness. turn the cities back into dark uncharted forests. turn our streets into villages. our homes; unexplored caves harboring unimagined secrets. transform this world of absolution and commodity back into one of mystery and uncertainty; into adventure. find the shadows in the light. seek out what you cannot see. lose yourself where all that was once natural, and pure, and obscure, has been pushed aside for clarity, baseness, and vulgarity. re-structure the world. play mind games with yourself. fool yourself into believing in things that you do not believe. discover your body, what it is capable of, and how it works. explore someone else’s. compare and contrast. feel everything. leave your body and your mind. observe both of them passively. feel no attachment to your thoughts or emotions. confound and confuse yourself. climb something absurd to climb. Hide from yourself. hide things from yourself where you'll never find them, and then stumble upon them years from now. run around in the dark. Walk around with your eyes closed in the daytime. strike up involving philosophical conversations with complete strangers; don't bother with formalities. ask questions. learn what you don't know and forget what you do know so that you can learn it again. be mysterious. be discreet. be overt. be a hypocrite. be a helpful criminal. Create things that don't work, or break things that do. misinterpret the obvious, and wield vaguery with precision.


rather than the insult which it has traditionally been, the mantra for
this century should be "get lost!"

the first, in my opinion

i think an introduction is in order: andy, jake, and matt. there. this is the three of us, collectively, individually. our aim is to rock. you know the usual: socks, your body, your miiind. i can only imagine. kick it off right boys, with a big barbecue, right? hee-haw! here we go...