tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-40913799467057924972024-03-12T15:57:06.826-07:00The SymptomsIllustrated Tantrums by Ashley HoltAshley Holthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17694826125128220544noreply@blogger.comBlogger68125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4091379946705792497.post-21943732284484108212021-03-03T05:56:00.007-08:002021-03-03T05:57:26.086-08:00Abstinence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLLmwaiCjPxzjTJJvMYOEiZfx3kyA01WaYmSAcEPMX4Zk5Y-G6875HWZ8kEucqv46wCrDC5taiCZcsSbFv08_1ZBezl6TNaOQVJ3ZQiTawj-otD_A6RP5CiPqKyCEZ6Eju0cOXCY6f/s623/monksmall.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="623" data-original-width="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLLmwaiCjPxzjTJJvMYOEiZfx3kyA01WaYmSAcEPMX4Zk5Y-G6875HWZ8kEucqv46wCrDC5taiCZcsSbFv08_1ZBezl6TNaOQVJ3ZQiTawj-otD_A6RP5CiPqKyCEZ6Eju0cOXCY6f/s16000/monksmall.jpg"></a></div><br><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> I thought I was a minimalist, totally opposed to the gluttony of empty
consumerism. I’d strut through America’s cavalcade of commercial excess, my
nose held high above the stench of my fellow K-Mart shoppers, disdainful of
their impulse buys and their conspicuous Biebermania. Was I the one buying Pumpkin
Spice Tylenol and Calvin Klein Cheerios? Was I loading up on 4-D smart TVs and
jet ski hot tubs like the rest of the cud chewers? No. I was a celibate
shopper, untainted by manufactured desire. I was in a state of Buddhist
transcendence, impervious to Hollywood trailers or viral marketing for instant
pudding. I lived with blissful nothingness.<span></span></span><a href="http://thrdgll.blogspot.com/2021/03/abstinence-makes-heart-grow-fonder.html#more">Read more »</a>Ashley Holthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17694826125128220544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4091379946705792497.post-6409223917864218232021-02-16T02:52:00.007-08:002021-03-03T05:45:41.704-08:00Howdy Duty<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3NVDXh5WghtPeVh5JpKD864Y83GAKnIVd2qqx89Wcdqgn42t1LtXad6fgdWT4vwTuGdagJ-cumDvNj8Qp3NTvHtubdEVGnOAB8s0hRG-orO2DcZYk1z0GlXdXDX2hA9Jilw4Bz66n/s586/mickey.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="586" data-original-width="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3NVDXh5WghtPeVh5JpKD864Y83GAKnIVd2qqx89Wcdqgn42t1LtXad6fgdWT4vwTuGdagJ-cumDvNj8Qp3NTvHtubdEVGnOAB8s0hRG-orO2DcZYk1z0GlXdXDX2hA9Jilw4Bz66n/s16000/mickey.jpg"></a></div><br> Among the phone-drone German citizens huddled on the train platform, there is
the Hello Guy. He never boards the S-Bahn with the rest; he just wanders the
station, grinning vacantly and greeting everyone.<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">
<br> “Hallo! Guten Tag! Hallo!”<span></span></span></p><a href="http://thrdgll.blogspot.com/2021/02/howdy-duty.html#more">Read more »</a>Ashley Holthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17694826125128220544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4091379946705792497.post-76724238185927153042021-02-08T03:12:00.004-08:002021-02-15T03:36:24.975-08:00Irony Deficiency <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9AUi4sdWhtHfGlt6h1PoX70VAvHMKuWT6001z_XdGT4h4iU4Io4MULuB2iyWPUJ7U4j_Nfu1oMLBeeia8T2kcUf4h-SOcjo-zqgk07SgU_34Rq1ShJUaBJkOh0ktPiwHH5SjUNOib/s651/lightbulbsmall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="651" data-original-width="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9AUi4sdWhtHfGlt6h1PoX70VAvHMKuWT6001z_XdGT4h4iU4Io4MULuB2iyWPUJ7U4j_Nfu1oMLBeeia8T2kcUf4h-SOcjo-zqgk07SgU_34Rq1ShJUaBJkOh0ktPiwHH5SjUNOib/s16000/lightbulbsmall.jpg"></a></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> There’s an
old joke about the citizens of Deutschland that goes like this:</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><i> How many Germans does it take to screw in a lightbulb?<br>
<br> One. They’re very efficient and they have no sense of humor.</i><br>
<br> The problem with indulging in completely accurate bigotry of this sort is that
someone always presents exceptions to this blanket condemnation and ruins our
fun of concluding that all Germans are uptight assholes. Usually someone on
Twitter.<span></span></span></p></div><a href="http://thrdgll.blogspot.com/2021/02/irony-deficiency.html#more">Read more »</a>Ashley Holthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17694826125128220544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4091379946705792497.post-22952940543902173782021-02-03T07:14:00.007-08:002021-02-15T02:44:09.411-08:00Home of the Crave<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr_I0djLWaYFaYcTHQa3Dz71E-SFCreLquSKSFD7zjkMfFgIFujeVpXKNTwDWtx0d99SaGlLx8QD99Cn6jKhm5YGtQIoL4atfM0R7qfCxRAghWZOJ5-LO93vmyncBi4c5TDZggxugH/s634/lawnboysmall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="634" data-original-width="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr_I0djLWaYFaYcTHQa3Dz71E-SFCreLquSKSFD7zjkMfFgIFujeVpXKNTwDWtx0d99SaGlLx8QD99Cn6jKhm5YGtQIoL4atfM0R7qfCxRAghWZOJ5-LO93vmyncBi4c5TDZggxugH/s16000/lawnboysmall.jpg"></a></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"> There is, as we know, an idealized vision
of European life held in the imagination of the average American Chomsky reader.
Suave, French and Italian intellectuals in their stylish scarves, skimming
through Sartre in sun-dappled cafes, sipping espressos, their heads full of
historical and cultural knowledge, smug in their easily-affordable healthcare
and 16 weeks of annual vacation. Well, I hate to break it to you little
Medieval Poetry majors, but this vision is entirely true. Based on my
experience, just sitting among these subdued Euros can make a Portland denizen
want to break down in sweet, liberal tears (like the snowflakes we are). Where
do they get off, these little multi-lingual sophisticates, secure in their rich
cultural history and tasteful fashions while we’ve had to endure the
Disney-fied inanities and jackbooted puritanism of our 24-hour, drive-thru,
infotainment, megachurch, celebrity-porn, Super Bowl lifestyles?<span></span></span></p><a href="http://thrdgll.blogspot.com/2021/02/home-of-crave.html#more">Read more »</a>Ashley Holthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17694826125128220544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4091379946705792497.post-64356980988022395822020-04-29T11:24:00.001-07:002020-04-29T11:25:20.378-07:00Sugar Lush<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"> C</span>ertain ideas just seem to come out of nowhere when I first
wake up in the morning. I rise from the depths of slumber, rubbing my swollen
eyelids, and suddenly think to myself, “Is Kitty Carlisle still alive?” And
then I can’t get on with my day until I’ve Googled.<br>
</div></div><a href="http://thrdgll.blogspot.com/2020/04/sugar-lush.html#more">Read more »</a>Ashley Holthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17694826125128220544noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4091379946705792497.post-11894145202404469022020-04-26T11:59:00.002-07:002020-04-26T11:59:36.917-07:00Matinee Idles<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Ashley Holthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17694826125128220544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4091379946705792497.post-84247852532652213932020-03-29T19:50:00.001-07:002020-03-29T19:50:12.287-07:00I Shutter to Think<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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We weren’t going to Disney World, that’s for sure. We
weren’t going to Hersheypark, Mt. Rushmore, Graceland, or that weird
Flintstones village in South Dakota. We weren’t even going to the nearest
Stuckey’s. There would be no road tripping. My father was agoraphobic, and
travel was considered too dangerous or, at the very least, upsetting to the
nervous system. There would be strange parking lots he had never negotiated
before and unfamiliar financial rituals with people he didn’t recognize from
church. There could be accents unfamiliar, accidental detours into the “bad
part of town,” and many disorienting decisions requiring road maps and travel
guides.</div>
</div><a href="http://thrdgll.blogspot.com/2020/03/i-shutter-to-think.html#more">Read more »</a>Ashley Holthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17694826125128220544noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4091379946705792497.post-49960675081512435462020-02-11T11:53:00.001-08:002020-02-11T11:54:13.107-08:00The Date Valentino<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Valentine’s Day, 1995. The wife and I were dining in an upscale restaurant in downtown Savannah. It was the sort of place that intimidated regular drive-thru consumers like us by presenting a variety of long-stemmed glasses on the table, subliminally suggesting that we purchase wine. We decided on the most expensive bottle so as not to look like the uncultured cretins we were. At this early stage of our lives, we were unaccustomed to food establishments that didn’t serve their poultry in nugget form. We had actually eaten at Wendy’s on our wedding day the previous year. It had been a happily lowbrow romance. But this was Valentine’s Day, after all, so splurging on the finer things was in order. What’s a little more crippling credit card debt when celebrating true love?<br>
</div></div><a href="http://thrdgll.blogspot.com/2020/02/the-date-valentino.html#more">Read more »</a>Ashley Holthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17694826125128220544noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4091379946705792497.post-40685463203926013642020-02-06T10:34:00.001-08:002020-07-12T09:49:00.189-07:00My Brother Went to Heaven and All I Got Were These Lousy T-Shirts<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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My brother was a man of vision, a man with a plan. Before his untimely demise,
David Holt had announced new get-rich-quick schemes on a weekly basis, and
almost all of them involved t-shirts. This made sense, seeing as he was a graphics
guy. What made even more sense for Dave was to coerce his younger brother into creating
the actual t-shirt designs, seeing as I was also a graphics guy and much
smaller and weaker than him. In David’s view, the t-shirt was the most
dependable bait when looking to lure cash from the general public’s wallets. Sports
graphics, Christmas gags, event souvenirs, or just a sly double-entendre in
Futura Bold, my brother knew whatever the public found amusing or inspiring,
they wanted printed on a t-shirt. It was
difficult to argue with this conclusion, but, tired of being muscled into his
shirt-selling schemes, I tried anyway.<br>
</div></div><a href="http://thrdgll.blogspot.com/2020/02/my-brother-went-to-heaven-and-all-i-got.html#more">Read more »</a>Ashley Holthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17694826125128220544noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4091379946705792497.post-15936195628243884072020-01-29T16:26:00.001-08:002020-01-30T09:45:04.913-08:00Work Geek<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I knew a girl in high school who worked a variety of mall
jobs. First she worked in a chain store called The Petite Sophisticate (known
in mall-shopper parlance as “The Little Bitch”), then she worked in the Spencer
Gifts next door, and finally wound up down the hall at the Peanut Shack. She
and I began to refer to this career maneuver as “moving left in the world.”<br>
</div></div><a href="http://thrdgll.blogspot.com/2020/01/work-geek.html#more">Read more »</a>Ashley Holthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17694826125128220544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4091379946705792497.post-11738802236419724472019-07-03T09:24:00.003-07:002020-02-06T12:43:48.616-08:00Old Vice<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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As of this writing, I have reached the age of fifty. Old age
is rapidly approaching, like the speeding of a comet destined to wipe out the
woolly mammoth, which I suppose in this case is a metaphor for bone density or
something. I’m too old to care if I’m writing good.<br>
</div></div><a href="http://thrdgll.blogspot.com/2019/07/old-vice.html#more">Read more »</a>Ashley Holthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17694826125128220544noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4091379946705792497.post-82157711473307041012019-01-29T10:29:00.001-08:002019-01-29T10:29:34.751-08:00Vest Pocket Holtism<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<iframe width="320" height="266" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/xWigwbeAxXE/0.jpg" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/xWigwbeAxXE?feature=player_embedded" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21;">You, the addled, tweet-stuffed denizens of social media, grimace at the conglomerations of excess wordage we once called "books" and proclaim, "TLDR!"</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21;">To you I offer this tiny slice of gourmet paragraphy, this smidgen of typeset delight - slightly longer than a drunk-text of angry emojis, but significantly shorter than Cervantes.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21;">And this slender volume, this pocket digest of wit and wisdom, wri</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; display: inline;">tten and somewhat perversely illustrated by my own self, is but a mere $5.<br /><br />A quick click of the link below, speedy delivery to your door, swift consumption of these memorable essays, and you're right back to flame wars about transgender bathrooms while you binge-watch your Cumberbatch whathaveyou.<br /><br />"A Blackbelt in Quitting": The book that doesn't waste your time!</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiez_fSplktHSVjVhvqWufbckMxsmoQOobZG4WPijBt9rh44savoy8Ao1aK7GrJ4CEpyB2eUP3pWKJJqnxxyPP4TRUWqPgNprOcgtuSHQfEc4tPk7ofAoiDBp4x3G8oiHDDqtK3wUq3/s1600/blackbeltcover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="578" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiez_fSplktHSVjVhvqWufbckMxsmoQOobZG4WPijBt9rh44savoy8Ao1aK7GrJ4CEpyB2eUP3pWKJJqnxxyPP4TRUWqPgNprOcgtuSHQfEc4tPk7ofAoiDBp4x3G8oiHDDqtK3wUq3/s400/blackbeltcover.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Order this vital-yet-semi-disposable book of knowledge <a href="http://www.lulu.com/shop/ashley-holt/a-black-belt-in-quitting/paperback/product-23373748.html?fbclid=IwAR0UVjKLl3D-KH5aejt6nnUQiKqZr2EtwBfDwFJtrR_HVtd2TqcJQ5RhFO8" target="_blank">here</a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; display: inline;"><br /></span></span></div>
Ashley Holthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17694826125128220544noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4091379946705792497.post-31206059394056386002019-01-28T17:33:00.000-08:002019-01-28T17:47:52.956-08:00Will Work for Fools<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnDRcFoDJKansM6r_CLEce8A28B8DOquCIUu-06knwxoLWcEmcgPr7AYXqhjav58odwqhyBv_Z2x6NAJs7tacYP3udigJ_qBffgN7eb7yMHTLwsqbb5DmYsCoXzLpbadcphXBIukyg/s1600/dummy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="785" data-original-width="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnDRcFoDJKansM6r_CLEce8A28B8DOquCIUu-06knwxoLWcEmcgPr7AYXqhjav58odwqhyBv_Z2x6NAJs7tacYP3udigJ_qBffgN7eb7yMHTLwsqbb5DmYsCoXzLpbadcphXBIukyg/s1600/dummy.jpg"></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"> During high
school, in the depths of the 1980’s, my friend Gnat got a job working at the
Guitar Exchange. It was a local retail establishment, a mus</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">ic shop about the
size of a storage shed, which served as a hangout for teenage stoners with Van
Halenian aspirations. Gnat being just such a guitar-shredding, heavy metal
acolyte, this seemed the perfect environment for him to pretend to be gainfully
employed. </span><br>
</div></div></div><a href="http://thrdgll.blogspot.com/2019/01/will-work-for-fools.html#more">Read more »</a>Ashley Holthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17694826125128220544noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4091379946705792497.post-75716390963999226292015-09-18T09:53:00.000-07:002019-01-28T17:47:19.069-08:00The Accidental Purist<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK1hVEW8sSe2tdv_HYBNpCxv7HQY2NKSsdVBY1H2WhABx2pxCChYQv62aA_rKPWpDlO6HJBo2RrzwWc-OlWlLjJq1zehFPzZ8kN4rqYfXCKP-MoVL2kXy5tMDHNy9rjizwzjpijluB/s1600/fenster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK1hVEW8sSe2tdv_HYBNpCxv7HQY2NKSsdVBY1H2WhABx2pxCChYQv62aA_rKPWpDlO6HJBo2RrzwWc-OlWlLjJq1zehFPzZ8kN4rqYfXCKP-MoVL2kXy5tMDHNy9rjizwzjpijluB/s640/fenster.jpg" width="476"></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; line-height: 150%;"> Gnat showed up in a van he said he’d been driving for two weeks,
but it looked like he’d owned it for twenty years. It was covered with dents,
dirt and debris on the outside, and the interior contained fossil layers of
convenience store and Burger King refuse, covering the once-pristine
upholstery. He’d driven this monstrosity to visit me while I was pretending to
get a college education in Savannah. In a weak moment of nostalgia for our hobo
high school years, I had invited this dumpster diver to spend a few days with
me in my new apartment. I was taken aback by his malodorous condition.</span><br>
</div></div><a href="http://thrdgll.blogspot.com/2015/09/the-accidental-purist.html#more">Read more »</a>Ashley Holthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17694826125128220544noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4091379946705792497.post-51323741818918919552015-06-22T18:12:00.001-07:002015-06-23T11:09:47.645-07:00The Known Unknown<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiE_wljtEHLxIzo5ZpQD7-zd9XKK-R1B88nBhgbv569Z7N3oE0XNotnclha-5HYsPPM7xq-JGPX3KbWgv98kHk_sx26JYftdHynesyP4A75VQG8agh1CbFzGCaX8nl9aD9LBFMxHWy/s1600/ashdesk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiE_wljtEHLxIzo5ZpQD7-zd9XKK-R1B88nBhgbv569Z7N3oE0XNotnclha-5HYsPPM7xq-JGPX3KbWgv98kHk_sx26JYftdHynesyP4A75VQG8agh1CbFzGCaX8nl9aD9LBFMxHWy/s640/ashdesk.jpg" width="504"></a></div>
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My math teacher, Mr. Pseudonym, gave us some fatherly advice
back in 1984. He accessed the collective intelligence of the assembled hopeless
in his classroom and said, “The older you get the more you realize how stupid
you are.”<br>
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Thinking this might be on the test, I wrote it down next to my ballpoint
drawings of exploding robots, in a notebook otherwise devoid of scholarship,
and went back to my sketching. I’m sure he felt compelled to give this advice
to us because we were in summer school, which, for the uninitiated, was
required of students who had flunked a class or three the previous year so they
and their lazy, drug-addled brains might advance to the next grade. It wasn’t exactly
a think tank.<br>
</div></div><a href="http://thrdgll.blogspot.com/2015/06/the-known-unknown.html#more">Read more »</a>Ashley Holthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17694826125128220544noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4091379946705792497.post-80752759599651073832015-05-28T20:06:00.001-07:002015-05-29T05:37:46.143-07:00Invasion of the Body Rockers<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0FEkA4wxeywwrdsJwspfWRprbVsGkt1AnfupY6T9D55Y3rn-R60e7C2qq_lRFday2esr_E4MH1jQ5Z2k5l2QXtnCmJOhX59OlqAfYVPhyf9fwvdZ4fFubfN6T0V-EWLzFONCVT9wP/s1600/eurovisionredux.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0FEkA4wxeywwrdsJwspfWRprbVsGkt1AnfupY6T9D55Y3rn-R60e7C2qq_lRFday2esr_E4MH1jQ5Z2k5l2QXtnCmJOhX59OlqAfYVPhyf9fwvdZ4fFubfN6T0V-EWLzFONCVT9wP/s640/eurovisionredux.jpg" width="516"></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">Y</span><span style="font-size: large;">ou missed the Eurovision Song Contest.</span> I know you missed it because, if you’re
reading this, you’re most likely an American. And last Saturday you were
watching reruns of Mama’s Family or barbequing Hot Pockets or shopping for
plastic tumblers at Walgreens or some other typical American activity, while
all of Europe and affiliated nations were glued to their state-sponsored
televisions, watching Eurovision. Shops and offices closed so they could gape
at this multi-billion-Euro musical extravaganza, a cornucopia of pop music, with enough
sequin-festooned glitz to make Liberace wince, and you weren’t invited.</div>
</div><a href="http://thrdgll.blogspot.com/2015/05/invasion-of-body-rockers.html#more">Read more »</a>Ashley Holthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17694826125128220544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4091379946705792497.post-55298050204955026522015-04-24T18:32:00.001-07:002015-04-27T11:29:31.422-07:00The Cars That Go Boom<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf33CPb9goNYbDAm1AEonaAxEiqACNhzFUCngi-QYKSghqr9FjD2Lww9lf-po74v2bV1mOXg4yB0PimPiNZtyUF3l9Od4TaNZPX1vit9JrFB50nNGHgxp1usGeur8MoYfOYBCk-fK1/s1600/flammenkar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf33CPb9goNYbDAm1AEonaAxEiqACNhzFUCngi-QYKSghqr9FjD2Lww9lf-po74v2bV1mOXg4yB0PimPiNZtyUF3l9Od4TaNZPX1vit9JrFB50nNGHgxp1usGeur8MoYfOYBCk-fK1/s1600/flammenkar.jpg" height="640" width="504"></a></div>
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I’ve seen my share of accidents along this dangerous stretch
of I-85 in upstate South Carolina. What I wasn’t fortunate enough to witness
myself has been conveniently photographed and printed on the front page of the
Gaffney Ledger. I’ve seen tractor-trailers overturned, crushing unsuspecting convertibles
and sporty hatchbacks. I’ve seen minivans ripped in half by trains. I’ve seen
delivery trucks dislodged of their fruit pie deliveries by the sudden
appearance of unlucky white-tailed bucks. But I can honestly say this was the
first time I’ve seen a car entirely engulfed in flames.</div>
</div><a href="http://thrdgll.blogspot.com/2015/04/the-cars-that-go-boom.html#more">Read more »</a>Ashley Holthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17694826125128220544noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4091379946705792497.post-62628983323156136562015-02-02T07:08:00.003-08:002015-02-02T07:08:34.923-08:00Irregular Joe<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2BPz407yPGkXRH98p0uBm38a34Q6Cqa9tjzXN_yrKfPShZdeMWszN0KD4Eptss3ibMKVKjAiXFXfTtAX3FXm-V4APj7NX9I6J0_g4i5yrsE2ZWK9j4xnrAhF7SJ-OYeD7gKNHoSTv/s1600/gijoe.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2BPz407yPGkXRH98p0uBm38a34Q6Cqa9tjzXN_yrKfPShZdeMWszN0KD4Eptss3ibMKVKjAiXFXfTtAX3FXm-V4APj7NX9I6J0_g4i5yrsE2ZWK9j4xnrAhF7SJ-OYeD7gKNHoSTv/s1600/gijoe.gif" height="640" width="448"></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"> A</span>s should be obvious by my reflective bloggery and general childishness, I am of the Nostalgia Geek Generation, those early Gen Xers whose lives revolve around the pop culture they ingested as kids. I’m not proud of it. I’ve long been critical of those who overindulge in pop culture junk and fall victim to the nostalgia-based marketing of Hollywood, K-Tel, Cartoon Network and Pez. I stick my nose high in the air as they stuff their juvenile craniums with Scrappy Doo and Gilligan reruns, Transformers movies and the oxymoronic Essential Marvel Team-Up reprints. But sometimes I am weak. Sometimes those bastards hit me right where I live and recycle a favorite childhood token that I can’t resist. They did it with the Ultraman ’66 DVD set, they did it with the Captain Atom/Blue Beetle/Question Archives, and now they’ve really done it with Hasbro’s reissue of the <b>1974 Adventure Team GI Joes</b> in all their kung-fu gripping glory.</div>
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</div><a href="http://thrdgll.blogspot.com/2015/02/irregular-joe.html#more">Read more »</a>Ashley Holthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17694826125128220544noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4091379946705792497.post-55086897239696461752014-12-30T02:02:00.000-08:002014-12-30T02:02:04.482-08:00A Few Beer’s Resolution<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">T</span>here seems to be a psychological trifecta in the American holiday season,</span> not unlike the Stages of Grief or the twelves steps of Hollywood networking (aka AA). On Thanksgiving, we show our gratitude for the bounty of hot tubs and elective surgeries we have available to us with a traditional feasting of the gravy-laden. Having properly thanked Papa Jehovah for our gruesome overindulgence, Christmas unleashes a bacchanal of retail consumption for which we may be thankful the following year (especially the eternal blessings of refunds and exchanges). And after all this thankfulness and further greed-a-palooza, we have New Year’s, in which we promise to never, ever do it again. </div>
</div><a href="http://thrdgll.blogspot.com/2014/12/a-few-beers-resolution.html#more">Read more »</a>Ashley Holthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17694826125128220544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4091379946705792497.post-15445200132053940262014-11-12T07:06:00.000-08:002014-11-12T10:39:49.878-08:00The Music is Reversible, But Time is Not<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkMqL8HzL68cXbLPzphmfb6VY8Fw-c0Tqdf1EL2ZGBYKoMn8CpDrKkXZTmkfX0aLAlvsI3WlRezW3sr2Fu_QlepuSRujsJ5R_8M-_3ZYySGMsbSaZKpI03phOgOiz7vWa20Ovpm5i7/s1600/hificolor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkMqL8HzL68cXbLPzphmfb6VY8Fw-c0Tqdf1EL2ZGBYKoMn8CpDrKkXZTmkfX0aLAlvsI3WlRezW3sr2Fu_QlepuSRujsJ5R_8M-_3ZYySGMsbSaZKpI03phOgOiz7vWa20Ovpm5i7/s400/hificolor.jpg" width="345"></a></div>
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Like so many other podunk dirt farmers of their generation,
my newlywed parents were eager to leave behind their rural childhoods of
chicken beheadings and outhouse hosings and embrace the dream of 1950’s
suburbia. They had visions of two-door Frigidaires, multi-speed cuisinarts and
full-color Philcos in a ranch-style Levittown castle. There would be backyard
barbecues and baseball practice, birthday piñatas on the patio and late-night
cocktail parties with boisterous neighbor couples. This last shindig would
require the feature every suburban dweller knew he couldn’t live without: the
hi-fi.<br>
</div></div><a href="http://thrdgll.blogspot.com/2014/11/the-music-is-reversible-but-time-is-not.html#more">Read more »</a>Ashley Holthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17694826125128220544noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4091379946705792497.post-29561389342188158822014-10-04T16:41:00.001-07:002014-10-04T16:42:43.104-07:00Generation Wrecks<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4riW7ONzsBFatX_Lj4ZtyxLElrUXJifn2D-NGkMIVZ6G1-ak_hkVWaTcr2utVy_XePV0jhnRgGc4RNphspozUVgrtB4Ah8yVQfCWG1IysUOZY53OuobzgzcMm8Xz2cIm5vfeqYAUE/s1600/genx.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4riW7ONzsBFatX_Lj4ZtyxLElrUXJifn2D-NGkMIVZ6G1-ak_hkVWaTcr2utVy_XePV0jhnRgGc4RNphspozUVgrtB4Ah8yVQfCWG1IysUOZY53OuobzgzcMm8Xz2cIm5vfeqYAUE/s1600/genx.gif" height="640" width="376"></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: x-large;">S</span>omewhere in 1987, my friend Chuck and I
were hanging out in his unfurnished apartment, waiting for that evening’s
episode of Webster to begin, when we saw a TV news broadcast profiling
“Generation X.” </b>This was a new media buzzword - a label for the upcoming batch
of young adults, who were, as usual, completely different in their values and
priorities from their parents. Gen X, it was said, was a disillusioned bunch.
They had little or no faith in the future, they had an ironic relationship with
our corporate-run culture, and they were emotionally unprepared to cope with
the struggles of adulthood. Rather than becoming the next wave of innovators, Generation
X, they told us, were far more likely to be found watching the Brady Bunch and
thumbing through old comic books. Chuck put down his copy of Richie Rich #118
and looked at me sheepishly.<br>
“Where did this ‘Generation X’ stuff
come from?” he asked.</span></div>
</div><a href="http://thrdgll.blogspot.com/2014/10/generation-wrecks_4.html#more">Read more »</a>Ashley Holthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17694826125128220544noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4091379946705792497.post-47418375944547145612014-07-09T18:21:00.001-07:002014-07-09T18:33:20.872-07:00The Agony of the Cleats<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <span style="font-size: x-large;">A</span><span style="font-size: large;">s of this writing, the United
States soccer team has been eliminated from the 2014 World Cup competition.</span> This
leaves the usual futbol suspects like Germany and Brazil to stomp each other’s
toes in a quest for glory, and it means Americans can officially go back to not
caring about soccer. We can feel relieved about this since, as I understand it,
the World Cup matches will continue for at least the next eight months (with
additional time added, depending on penalties and injuries) – or maybe it just
feels that long.</span><br>
</div></div><a href="http://thrdgll.blogspot.com/2014/07/the-agony-of-cleats.html#more">Read more »</a>Ashley Holthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17694826125128220544noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4091379946705792497.post-16892740324468690402013-05-18T18:42:00.001-07:002013-05-18T18:42:07.691-07:00Internal Combustion: The Talkie<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju1T8ojpX7sn-0P6G9fJQktdOEtcSbsSH93wSmtY63QSQMFUfQ-cQTYL1uw38Nb6fvbrljLWOTEDBvC0X_-S-4Cm-BqWL-3enmstIMPXZ-sDG1OQS5zqKi7OT2DUD2H4gDFjvBCYEA/s400/icCDcover.jpg" width="397" /><br /></div>
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I hear what you're saying: "Sure, that <i>Internal Combustion</i> book is a literary masterpiece. But what about the illiterates among my friends and family? How will they enjoy the heartfelt humor and self-righteous wit of this amazing work? Should I just forget about them and let them keep on watching Season One of <i>Mannix</i>?"<br /><br />Heavens no! <i>Mannix</i> is butt-awful! As always, I'm here to help. Now there's <i>Internal Combustion</i>: the Audiobook! Three compact discs for one low price, featuring impassioned readings from The Book straight from my very own gargling larynx. Not only unabridged, but with additional blather! Plus an attractive booklet containing all the illustrations from the original book!<br /><br />Is that not enough for you? Well, it wasn't enough for me, either. That's why, in addition to writing, illustrating, and recording these readings from the book myself, I also created original music for the audiobook production. I'm like Orson Welles and Yanni put together!<br /><br />Click below for sample snippets of audio. And note just how easy this miracle product is to order! Want to forego that pesky, 20th Century plastic artifact? Then choose the digital download option for half the price!<br /><br /><a href="http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/ashleyholt4">http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/ashleyholt4</a></div>
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Ashley Holthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17694826125128220544noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4091379946705792497.post-67490414201668760552013-02-13T12:19:00.000-08:002013-02-13T12:19:34.801-08:00Too Cool for Drool<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqJ3PU5FDVITO4D3DCH2MFTOnIHvZ-YXeaxxDqOvqZ7iwTaSSBen_6e0LKrPud6-1Ug-mAquV0Xjot3IK29k6v_DOU5B0-k1cC4ZDkwlYSN_zgpGQLe2PUZw4twdHSHKSrDaOywVtN/s1600/delorescolor2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqJ3PU5FDVITO4D3DCH2MFTOnIHvZ-YXeaxxDqOvqZ7iwTaSSBen_6e0LKrPud6-1Ug-mAquV0Xjot3IK29k6v_DOU5B0-k1cC4ZDkwlYSN_zgpGQLe2PUZw4twdHSHKSrDaOywVtN/s640/delorescolor2.jpg" width="402"></a></div>
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I envy you people who say you have no regrets. That is, I
would envy you if I thought you were being truthful, and not simply living in
denial about all the disgraceful lapses in judgment that blot your permanent
record. <br>
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Regret could be considered my primary character trait. My life is a rich
tapestry of bad jokes at funerals, lampshade-clad party gymnastics, and
anger-fueled outbursts of “I don’t need your stinking job!” when clearly I did.
My body itself is a testament to regrettable actions. I’m covered in scars
received not from acts of orphan-saving valor, but from double-dog dares that I
couldn’t catch a Nerf football from the back of a moving moped and similar
adventures. If I did it, it’s likely that I regret it.<br>
</div></div><a href="http://thrdgll.blogspot.com/2013/02/too-cool-for-drool.html#more">Read more »</a>Ashley Holthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17694826125128220544noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4091379946705792497.post-6141296358061782332013-02-02T16:57:00.004-08:002013-02-02T16:57:41.563-08:00Prattle of the Network Stars<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn1GsCOjcaFwRDcOKOLy0x1NFC01MqYcEWkmBOyPLjfnos7wYGJ9ya5dBPHiWoCezXUlzTEDKq6xbihOxqoHV11gFmQGMzhjUBMx1j1LeO0vcB968REr-rKTLZCnDnNuxjTSbQ1k0h/s1600/kalamitycolor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn1GsCOjcaFwRDcOKOLy0x1NFC01MqYcEWkmBOyPLjfnos7wYGJ9ya5dBPHiWoCezXUlzTEDKq6xbihOxqoHV11gFmQGMzhjUBMx1j1LeO0vcB968REr-rKTLZCnDnNuxjTSbQ1k0h/s640/kalamitycolor.jpg" width="470"></a></div>
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As much as it will pain me, I may have to defriend Kalamity
Kate. I know the accepted term on Facebook is “unfriend,” but seeing as the age
of texting has abolished the rules of grammar, I feel I should be able to
deinvent the language to my own satisfactioning. I also think wine and tubs
should be decorked and declogged respectively, in case you were wondering. But
I ungress.</div></div><a href="http://thrdgll.blogspot.com/2013/02/prattle-of-network-stars.html#more">Read more »</a>Ashley Holthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17694826125128220544noreply@blogger.com1