Keep Butch(Corp) Alive
Donation protected
People Of Earth:
Growing up as I did where Joe Montana was my God, my concept of a Hail Mary stemmed from football instead of the church. What you did was avoided the rush as much as you could, planted your feet, and heaved it as far downfield as you could go in the hopes Jerry Rice or the like would make a leaping catch to win the game in the final seconds. I didn’t realize in future years in pithier forms I would recognize it as a gridiron equivalent of “let go and let God”. What I did realize was that the Hail Mary was always under emergency glass that was only to be broken in the most desperate of situations, because, hey — it might just pay off.
For me, this is when I smash the glass and plant my feet. Apologies for the mixed metaphor.
Sometimes in order to do your best thinking, to reach the level of something revelatory, you need to be flat on your back and seemingly losing altitude at increasingly horrifying speeds. Should you need to be in this position, a fine incubator to make all your neurons fire is to find yourself down the hall from your parents looking at childhood mementos not knowing in the future that you’re about to sleep on a bed who’s undercarriage is a virtual international airport hub for bugs, nearly wholly destitute and slowly being worn away by depression to the point of disassociating from nearly every major aspect of your life.
It’s important you have this. I recommend it to everyone, and I’ll tell you why:
The bugs keep you awake, thus giving you more time to think. The depression makes you desperate, to the point where asking friends and strangers over the Internet for some charitable donations so that you stay alive and have something resembling a residence no matter how much you feel like a kid wearing an adult costume. The disassociation means that when you care, you care deeply, and it comes with a greater focus when you can hone down and concentrate at a moment of looking down the barrel of a bunch of un-Dicaprioesque arguments.
The second you realize the idea of non-ironically Googling “how to become a male prostitute” has come into your life is a sing that Yes, Things Have Hit A Low. But tempting as exhibiting my wares in Balboa Park is (maybe I could still work out a deal of that sort with Panama 66?), the only thing brick about me is what I’d throw up if I walked back onto a basketball course and my body just doesn’t not meet any traditional definition of the word shithouse; no, what I’m more like is a mostly amicable bullshitter/full-of-shithouse; what they in previous centuries called a raconteur. And the inspiration hit me as if an edict from the Purple One himself: if I could not use my body, I could damn sure use what was left of my mind.
And yes, my brain at times has its own bedbugs that scurry over flesh in the night and leave occasional bites that would be borderline cute if they weren’t so goddamned horrifying. But while I may bury my brain, let me also come to praise it as well. When’s it’s not playing Duck Season Rabbit Season over an imposter complex and a messiah complex, it’s the incubator for a lot of good ideas. The fact that many times I’ve sat at a social event brew in hand and come up with an idea that’s immediately feted and received proves this. The fact I’m fortunate enough to be surrounded by good people who I’m always astounded actually want to hang out with me proves this. And sometimes when I’m drunk and hungry in the wee hours of the morning, orange chicken and waffles proves this. (Try it if you haven’t and thank me later.)
There’s no upside in having temp jobs that can be yanked out right from underneath you when you’re depending on them for that sweet hit of Christmas cash, no polite way to tell your retiree parents the reason you don’t want to move in with them to a new town is because you’re afraid you can see the end of the novel from here and it ends in a multiple homicide/suicide combo platter, and something particularly galling about being recognized on sight at a job interview for a place you love and would’ve loved to work at but not even getting a follow-up call for as much as a second interview.
And that’s when you can even get a second interview, which in itself is a sadly rare bird. And all of this makes you tired.
Tired of being beholden to white-and-green dyed dead tree, tired of the maggots of depression treating the worst impulses and natures of your brain like a $9.95 all-the-crab-legs-you-can-eat lunch buffet on the Strip, tired of letting down the people who support you and ultimately yourself.
But as that chick with all the puppies said, you’re your biggest problem. But you’re also your biggest solution.
And with that in mind, it was past time to start my own unique business opportunity wrapped in my own business.
See, the money donated here is going for bills first and foremost. If this raises a bit of money I will be getting further acquainted with the public transportation system and using it to sleep on even more. It’s not exactly the most graceful solution in the world, but it’ll do as a two-star spa day at the Last Resort. Should this raise a decent amount of money, then I’ll at least be able to justify being someone’s couch czar while also doing the Cinderfella routines of cleaning, organizing, and light cooking. (Even when things are at their worst, one of the thing you’ll realizes helps you about not having much is that you can move books and clothes and your not much else at pretty much a movie length’s notice. Besides, clothes are merely so your too-pretty-for-jail behind doesn’t become property of the State, and books are nurturing inspirtation pamphlets blown up writ large whenever your own Great American Novel gets too daunting due to outside pressures of finding somewhere new to live, or even more distressingly, actual events looking like things you wrote.) And, if this raises the amount on the screen or even more, why, then you can be someone’s full-fledged roommate without worrying that you’re not holding up your end of the bargain money-wise and justifying your existence on at least that plane alone.
Why wouldn’t someone want a roommate who spends most of their time not at the residence and when they are, they’re sitting down typing or staring at a blinking cursor with headphones over their ears mouthing LCD Soundsystem lyrics? It’s less man than snake — you give it a mouse every once in a while, make sure it doesn’t look too pale around the gills, and the rest takes care of itself!
What Keep Butch(Corp) Alive will do besides Keep Butch Alive is allow me to take all my free-form creative work and bring it all in under the same umbrella before shipping it out to the masses. And, before I break your purist hearts, let me make something perfectly clear right now: if I am given the chance to sell out for a billion dollars, I will take it and forget any of you ever existed.
Assuming that ship doesn’t come in, however, this fundraiser will also give me seed money to start to get to work on turning my brilliant ideas into things that don’t just take up residence on my neurons. Executive producing ideas for things from beer names to apparel has been something I’ve been doing for years, and how’s that working out for me, being clever? To paraphrase the Oatmeal, I can’t buy carne asada fries on Exposure Dollars.
Why keep having brilliant T-shirt ideas and not turn them into T-shirts? When/if this works, I promise you, the ButchCorp stockholder, that you will be able to get your hands on a If You’re Pissed About Captain America Just Wait Until You Find About Jesus shirt in time for Comic-Con 2016. And that’ll just be one out of many shirts and hopefully other clothing that I want to executive produce and get done in the new year as long as I don’t have the sword of Damocles in the form of outright poverty and/or homelessness riding me like a Triple Crown winner. If nothing else, ButchCorp may become San Diego’s signature snarky three-quarter-length shirt emporium. It’s a small rock, but I can still build my church from it, you know?
In addition to shirts, with money can come an upgrade and being brought into the 21st century with Baby’s First Real Laptop. Doing that will allow me to write whenever, wherever (a lot of times this’ll look like a hollow fifty-yard stare into the middle distance while the screen looks exactly the same, but I can’t control the optics, people) but it’ll also allow for a resurgence of DJ Brother Darkness, who has lain dormant for entirely too long, possibly because he was pulling a NuMark iCDMix2 behind him. Have a mashup idea? Would you like a specific type of long form mix? Need a deck wrecker to come to your party/wedding/bat mitzvah/divorce party/Taco Tuesday and turn the party out? A few schkels here can turn into that there down the road. All you ask is that you be fine with the DJ’s off kilter dancing when he blasts “Hotline Bling” and CRJ’s “I Really Like You”.
Back to writing: as much fun as I’m having doing some music-related stuff for Treblezine and NXT-fanboying for the Wrestling Blog, these are also things that due to the vagaries of the market only spit out occasional compliments and Exposure Dollars. And while the hope is to get the One-Man Jihad finished and set for publishing in 2016, it still isn’t finished and I’d prefer trying to get it released the traditional way before relying on self-publishing. So if you need a resume polished, something copy edited, a little something punched up, I’m your Huckleberry. Fortunately for me, society’s (d)evolved to the point where someone learning AP style years before they see a breast has turned into a commodity and less of a detriment, and now I can ask you for a bit of cash and in return put a little english on your English. (That one’s for free.) ((You’re welcome.))
In summation: you get access to a jack of all trades — king of a few — and ace at a handful who instead of being a functioning adult has turned into a weird repository of writing, DJing, design and pop culture who will turn your charitable donations into creative fuel that’ll blaze a path right into Anna Kendrick’s heart and you can be there when they wed.
And me? I stay alive, and focus less on the bedbugs real and imagined and get to work as my and your own boss focusing on fulfilling work instead of having to heave a 58-yarder in the hopes that Jerry Rice will come down with it in the end zone.
Say what you will about two of the Beatles getting shot and another one marrying Heather Mills, but they got by with a little help with their friends and that seemed to work out pretty well for all of them. I’ve gotten by with the help of my friends before. I am now. And all I ask is a little more help to get through the next little bit; not so much a handout to save me as a series of hands helping me up while I continue the day-to-day work of saving myself.
Sincerely,
Butch Rosser
ButchCorp™* CEO
(*™ is unofficial but in progress and can be made real if it’s got enough backing. Just saying. Seriously, though, thanks again.)
Growing up as I did where Joe Montana was my God, my concept of a Hail Mary stemmed from football instead of the church. What you did was avoided the rush as much as you could, planted your feet, and heaved it as far downfield as you could go in the hopes Jerry Rice or the like would make a leaping catch to win the game in the final seconds. I didn’t realize in future years in pithier forms I would recognize it as a gridiron equivalent of “let go and let God”. What I did realize was that the Hail Mary was always under emergency glass that was only to be broken in the most desperate of situations, because, hey — it might just pay off.
For me, this is when I smash the glass and plant my feet. Apologies for the mixed metaphor.
Sometimes in order to do your best thinking, to reach the level of something revelatory, you need to be flat on your back and seemingly losing altitude at increasingly horrifying speeds. Should you need to be in this position, a fine incubator to make all your neurons fire is to find yourself down the hall from your parents looking at childhood mementos not knowing in the future that you’re about to sleep on a bed who’s undercarriage is a virtual international airport hub for bugs, nearly wholly destitute and slowly being worn away by depression to the point of disassociating from nearly every major aspect of your life.
It’s important you have this. I recommend it to everyone, and I’ll tell you why:
The bugs keep you awake, thus giving you more time to think. The depression makes you desperate, to the point where asking friends and strangers over the Internet for some charitable donations so that you stay alive and have something resembling a residence no matter how much you feel like a kid wearing an adult costume. The disassociation means that when you care, you care deeply, and it comes with a greater focus when you can hone down and concentrate at a moment of looking down the barrel of a bunch of un-Dicaprioesque arguments.
The second you realize the idea of non-ironically Googling “how to become a male prostitute” has come into your life is a sing that Yes, Things Have Hit A Low. But tempting as exhibiting my wares in Balboa Park is (maybe I could still work out a deal of that sort with Panama 66?), the only thing brick about me is what I’d throw up if I walked back onto a basketball course and my body just doesn’t not meet any traditional definition of the word shithouse; no, what I’m more like is a mostly amicable bullshitter/full-of-shithouse; what they in previous centuries called a raconteur. And the inspiration hit me as if an edict from the Purple One himself: if I could not use my body, I could damn sure use what was left of my mind.
And yes, my brain at times has its own bedbugs that scurry over flesh in the night and leave occasional bites that would be borderline cute if they weren’t so goddamned horrifying. But while I may bury my brain, let me also come to praise it as well. When’s it’s not playing Duck Season Rabbit Season over an imposter complex and a messiah complex, it’s the incubator for a lot of good ideas. The fact that many times I’ve sat at a social event brew in hand and come up with an idea that’s immediately feted and received proves this. The fact I’m fortunate enough to be surrounded by good people who I’m always astounded actually want to hang out with me proves this. And sometimes when I’m drunk and hungry in the wee hours of the morning, orange chicken and waffles proves this. (Try it if you haven’t and thank me later.)
There’s no upside in having temp jobs that can be yanked out right from underneath you when you’re depending on them for that sweet hit of Christmas cash, no polite way to tell your retiree parents the reason you don’t want to move in with them to a new town is because you’re afraid you can see the end of the novel from here and it ends in a multiple homicide/suicide combo platter, and something particularly galling about being recognized on sight at a job interview for a place you love and would’ve loved to work at but not even getting a follow-up call for as much as a second interview.
And that’s when you can even get a second interview, which in itself is a sadly rare bird. And all of this makes you tired.
Tired of being beholden to white-and-green dyed dead tree, tired of the maggots of depression treating the worst impulses and natures of your brain like a $9.95 all-the-crab-legs-you-can-eat lunch buffet on the Strip, tired of letting down the people who support you and ultimately yourself.
But as that chick with all the puppies said, you’re your biggest problem. But you’re also your biggest solution.
And with that in mind, it was past time to start my own unique business opportunity wrapped in my own business.
See, the money donated here is going for bills first and foremost. If this raises a bit of money I will be getting further acquainted with the public transportation system and using it to sleep on even more. It’s not exactly the most graceful solution in the world, but it’ll do as a two-star spa day at the Last Resort. Should this raise a decent amount of money, then I’ll at least be able to justify being someone’s couch czar while also doing the Cinderfella routines of cleaning, organizing, and light cooking. (Even when things are at their worst, one of the thing you’ll realizes helps you about not having much is that you can move books and clothes and your not much else at pretty much a movie length’s notice. Besides, clothes are merely so your too-pretty-for-jail behind doesn’t become property of the State, and books are nurturing inspirtation pamphlets blown up writ large whenever your own Great American Novel gets too daunting due to outside pressures of finding somewhere new to live, or even more distressingly, actual events looking like things you wrote.) And, if this raises the amount on the screen or even more, why, then you can be someone’s full-fledged roommate without worrying that you’re not holding up your end of the bargain money-wise and justifying your existence on at least that plane alone.
Why wouldn’t someone want a roommate who spends most of their time not at the residence and when they are, they’re sitting down typing or staring at a blinking cursor with headphones over their ears mouthing LCD Soundsystem lyrics? It’s less man than snake — you give it a mouse every once in a while, make sure it doesn’t look too pale around the gills, and the rest takes care of itself!
What Keep Butch(Corp) Alive will do besides Keep Butch Alive is allow me to take all my free-form creative work and bring it all in under the same umbrella before shipping it out to the masses. And, before I break your purist hearts, let me make something perfectly clear right now: if I am given the chance to sell out for a billion dollars, I will take it and forget any of you ever existed.
Assuming that ship doesn’t come in, however, this fundraiser will also give me seed money to start to get to work on turning my brilliant ideas into things that don’t just take up residence on my neurons. Executive producing ideas for things from beer names to apparel has been something I’ve been doing for years, and how’s that working out for me, being clever? To paraphrase the Oatmeal, I can’t buy carne asada fries on Exposure Dollars.
Why keep having brilliant T-shirt ideas and not turn them into T-shirts? When/if this works, I promise you, the ButchCorp stockholder, that you will be able to get your hands on a If You’re Pissed About Captain America Just Wait Until You Find About Jesus shirt in time for Comic-Con 2016. And that’ll just be one out of many shirts and hopefully other clothing that I want to executive produce and get done in the new year as long as I don’t have the sword of Damocles in the form of outright poverty and/or homelessness riding me like a Triple Crown winner. If nothing else, ButchCorp may become San Diego’s signature snarky three-quarter-length shirt emporium. It’s a small rock, but I can still build my church from it, you know?
In addition to shirts, with money can come an upgrade and being brought into the 21st century with Baby’s First Real Laptop. Doing that will allow me to write whenever, wherever (a lot of times this’ll look like a hollow fifty-yard stare into the middle distance while the screen looks exactly the same, but I can’t control the optics, people) but it’ll also allow for a resurgence of DJ Brother Darkness, who has lain dormant for entirely too long, possibly because he was pulling a NuMark iCDMix2 behind him. Have a mashup idea? Would you like a specific type of long form mix? Need a deck wrecker to come to your party/wedding/bat mitzvah/divorce party/Taco Tuesday and turn the party out? A few schkels here can turn into that there down the road. All you ask is that you be fine with the DJ’s off kilter dancing when he blasts “Hotline Bling” and CRJ’s “I Really Like You”.
Back to writing: as much fun as I’m having doing some music-related stuff for Treblezine and NXT-fanboying for the Wrestling Blog, these are also things that due to the vagaries of the market only spit out occasional compliments and Exposure Dollars. And while the hope is to get the One-Man Jihad finished and set for publishing in 2016, it still isn’t finished and I’d prefer trying to get it released the traditional way before relying on self-publishing. So if you need a resume polished, something copy edited, a little something punched up, I’m your Huckleberry. Fortunately for me, society’s (d)evolved to the point where someone learning AP style years before they see a breast has turned into a commodity and less of a detriment, and now I can ask you for a bit of cash and in return put a little english on your English. (That one’s for free.) ((You’re welcome.))
In summation: you get access to a jack of all trades — king of a few — and ace at a handful who instead of being a functioning adult has turned into a weird repository of writing, DJing, design and pop culture who will turn your charitable donations into creative fuel that’ll blaze a path right into Anna Kendrick’s heart and you can be there when they wed.
And me? I stay alive, and focus less on the bedbugs real and imagined and get to work as my and your own boss focusing on fulfilling work instead of having to heave a 58-yarder in the hopes that Jerry Rice will come down with it in the end zone.
Say what you will about two of the Beatles getting shot and another one marrying Heather Mills, but they got by with a little help with their friends and that seemed to work out pretty well for all of them. I’ve gotten by with the help of my friends before. I am now. And all I ask is a little more help to get through the next little bit; not so much a handout to save me as a series of hands helping me up while I continue the day-to-day work of saving myself.
Sincerely,
Butch Rosser
ButchCorp™* CEO
(*™ is unofficial but in progress and can be made real if it’s got enough backing. Just saying. Seriously, though, thanks again.)
Organizer
Butch Rosser
Organizer
San Diego, CA
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