Author Archives: Bryan Hilson

Important Holiday Retail Dates

November 24 – BLACK FRIDAY

November 25 – SMALL BUSINESS SATURDAY

November 26 – I HAVE STUFF HOW COME I’M NOT HAPPIER? SUNDAY

November 27 – CYBER MONDAY

November 28 – GIVING TUESDAY

November 29 -THE COSSACKS ARE COMING! WEDNESDAY

November 30 – WHITE-KNUCKLING THE CREDIT CARDS OVER THE MOUTH OF THE SHREDDER THURSDAY

December 1 – EVERYBODY’S GETTING A “BLESS US, EVERY ONE” MEME THIS YEAR VIA TEXT AND THAT’S FRICKING IT FRIDAY

Contractually Obligated Halloween Post

“The Best Friend Is Not In Heaven”

The dumb thing is this could’ve been cool if Preston wasn’t being a butt crack. La Belle Cemetery at almost dusk, dark out and not dark out at the same time—actually, it’d be perfect if I hadn’t promised Mrs. Grimble I’d do this ghost hunt with Preston. She made me swear to it, and this is the kid who told me in homeroom I’m the reason we can’t be partners anymore.

Now he’s ruining the light.

No, screw that, the Nathusius family gravesite is still cool and I tell jerk face Preston to stop practicing his intro so I can get some video.

I turn on the camcorder and start with the three headstones, the dad and mom and oldest daughter, all born way long ago in the 1800s and died way long ago in the 1900s. Then the family monument, the platform built to look like stairs and the gigantic cross on the last step and the big block next to it that says NATHUSIUS. All the thick gray stone is sculpted and amazing and everything, but I zoom in where everybody’s eyes should be going.  

The statue of the girl made of the same stone on the second stair. Long hair falling over her shoulders and a dress that covers her feet. She’s got her hands on her stomach and she’s cradling flowers. Age-wise, she’s probably two grades ahead of me.

I do a slow zoom out from her sad gray face and man it’s kind of dramatic—

—and Preston totally stands up in my shot. Stares straight into the camera.

“What the?! Man!” I stop recording.

“Neil, I need another rehearsal,” he says. “Reading the diary pages. My elocution is off.”

“Your what? Electrocution?”

Here they come, the big show-off words. It’s always when he’s wearing his “tweeds” and his slicked-back hair he can’t get right unless his mom helps him.

“It was fine,” I say. “Just read what it says. Don’t go all Sir Preston Highcliff.”

Preston sniffs like he’s sniffed since first grade when nothing’s dripping out of his nose.

“Why did I allow Mrs. Grimble to constrain me to a promise not to work this solitarily?”

“What? Stop doing that. I’m the one who promised her. I could do this by myself, easy, but she gave me that look.”

Preston shivers in his tweeds. “That look.”

“Yeah, like it makes—”

“—icicles in your armpits,” we say.

We almost look at each other and laugh. Our joke when we met Mrs. Grimble at the Historical Society that first time. When we were still partners. And now I’m way first to scowl. Because this is our last ghost hunt. Not partners, definitely not friends.

“Don’t be a dorkhole,” I say. “Do it like I would for once. Normal, like, ‘Hey, what’s up, if this statue really is haunted by a ghost girl, then thanks to the secret Nathusius family diary we know her name is Mary. And 200 years ago she came to Wisconsin for a better life with bunches of other German immigrants. She was gonna marry the son of Mr. Nathusius but he changed his mind and because girls have been weird for I guess forever, she drowned herself in Fowler Lake. And now, supposedly, every year on the day Mary died, after the sun’s completely gone, the statue cries blood and her ghost appears and she drowns herself again.’ See? It’s easy.”    

“I don’t think girls are weird,” Preston says.  

What?” My armpits were cold before, now they’re hot. “Forget the intro. Just do what you do to be ready if a ghost shows up.” 

Preston sniffs and mumbles a made-up word. Sounded like “igneraymuss,” whatever that is. I hit record on the camera and he sits on his little stool at his little table in the grass. He takes white candles out of the leather bag that looks like when his grandpa’s been in the sun too long. 

I go back to the statue and follow where the girl’s eyes are looking. The block of stone at the bottom of the family monument. The words carved into it. I remember that other stuff Preston read from the diary. The Nathusius family felt really guilty about Mary dying and had the statue made and those words engraved just for her. It’s German, something she always used to say. In English it means THE BEST FRIEND IS IN HEAVEN…………………………………..  

Why am I holding this shot so long? I move to where other graves mark a path down to the Oconomowoc River feeding into Fowler Lake. Mary’s ghost only has to walk or I guess float a hundred feet to the water. To drown herself………….my armpits are cold…………that’s weird.

Everything is really still. The lake. The trees. The air. I can’t smell the laundry soap on my jean jacket. I don’t hear Preston squeaking candles into candleholders.  

“Neil,” he says. “She’s here.”

I flinch—I mean, I turn quick to see and Preston’s standing and staring at nothing but a darker cemetery. I switch the camera to night vison. All that gives me is the nothing in green.  

“Are you sure?” I say. “Grab the EMF meter out of your bag.”

He doesn’t move. His eyes are as big as mine would be if I could actually see my first dang ghost too.

“Can’t you hear her?” he says.

“Preston, show me where she is.”  

“Mary says she’s been waiting for someone just like me. Serendipity.”

“What?”

My armpits heat up and I’m zooming in and out on the camera, trying to find her, catching the statue’s eyes. Something very very wrong is coming out of her eyes.

“Preston, is that blood? Preston!”   

He’s shaking. Really hard. Like a million Mrs. Grimbles are all giving him that look. Both our mouths pop wide open. What do I do I’m—Preston’s mouth snaps shut he stops shaking and…………man the grin he puts on.  

I’m 89 pounds of armpit sweat.

“Der beste freund ist nicht im Himmel.”        

I drop the camcorder. His voice is a girl’s voice, but low and not real friendly.

He will walk with me into the water. He will walk with me forever.”

Preston comes at me on the cemetery path to the lake. His face is like the family’s headstone. What do I do I’m stuck I can’t move I can’t breathe I can’t—

He shoves me aside.

Mary’s ghost is in control.

She’s taking him to drown with her.       

“Wait,” I say, hoping I’m louder than my heart is. “You’re not weird. I didn’t mean it!”

“He will walk with me forever. My husband.”

“Husband?! He’s in sixth grade!”

“He’s lonely. We will be good company in death.”

What do I do I go after him and jump on his back and we fall off a grassy ledge and hit the riverbank. I’m on top of him but we’re still moving. Preston claws at the wet grass digging up mud crawling forward. Mary’s ghost is gonna drown us both. I grab his arms. I gotta try.

“Preston, it’s my fault,” I say. “You’re right. I lied. I did.” He keeps clawing. I keep trying. “I ditched you and went to that VR party. I’m the butt crack. But you’re never alone, okay? You’re not! Preston!”

He slows. He twitches.

“Preston!”

He quits. He blows out this massive breath.

We both do.

“Aren’t ya glad you did this together,” Mrs. Grimble says. Mrs. Grimble?

She’s sitting on the grassy ledge. Not giving us that look, just raising her eyebrows.

“Boys,” she says. Her mouth stays open. “OH!” It stretches, stretches, she’s shaking, then it shuts so hard her false teeth smack.  

But she’s grinning, and Mrs. Grimble never ever grins.  

“Der beste freund ist nicht im Himmel.”         

September 27 Is Invisible Ink Day!

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The First Serious Post Of The Season

Fall is coming! It’s time to get serious!

Silly? Us? Sneering cuss?

Ser-i-ous. Come on now, adopt a more solemn tone.

Co-opt a boar’s slalom pose?

No. Act your age not your shoe size.

Snack for daze, snot or glue pies?

I’m not doing this.

Mimes plot drooling diss.

Just once! Just once ping Normal!

……..

Thank you.

Pus Funds Spring Formal.

Oh my god. Please, I’m begging you.

Sleeves my leggings rue.

That’s it! I’m done! I’m leaving!

Heaving?

LEAVE-ING.

Well.

Now that he’s finally gone, my treatise on Derrida’s theory of deconstruction………    

AI OR DOPPELGANGER

We live in a frenetic and fragmented world. More than ever before our attention is being pulled in so many different directions, and what we have bandwidth for is shrinking every day. But I can’t hold with that excuse, not when I have a responsibility to my readers, especially those readers who feel like they’re not being heard.

And cloning seems so ok boomer, amiright?

Which is why I’m setting up an alternative means of communication for those of you trying to reach me who don’t enjoy the hold music (which is baffling, I know, “Mmm Mmm Mmm Mmm” is very soothing). Starting August 1, I’m offering a tiered pricing model for a quicker direct connection between subscriber and…….me-adjacent.

TIER 1 – For only 5 cents a minute, enjoy a lively back and forth with “Hello My Name Is BryanChatty,” an AI approximation of me developed over a series of visits to a deprivation tank facility in Silicon Valley.

TIER 2 – For the modest price of a withered bird claw and sack of pig entrails every other blood moon, engage in a terse but uncomfortably pleasant exchange with my doppelganger who recently relocated to Los Angeles from a secluded village deep in the shadows of the Carpathian Mountains to haunt my waking life.

Each tier basically offers the subscriber an “Ask Me Anything” format but the beta testing has shown participants are most eager to: 1) discuss their relationships; 2) exchange financial advice; and 3) just need a platform in which to express their existential fears.

To get you excited about your own conversations, here’s a sampling of responses generated by our test audience’s queries:

BryanChatty: How many bad dates will it take for you to finally realize you should be running home in the rain on New Year’s Eve to your Nintendo Switch?

My Doppelganger: Desirability as a mate increases sevenfold with seven streaks on your door made from the dung of the three-eared yak of the Kodeszicu Valley. Not six streaks, seven. Six streaks will only increase by sixfold your inability to pass a bilestone.  

BryanChatty: Would Lindsay Lohan be shilling for cryptocurrency if weren’t a smart decision?

My Doppelganger: For your satchel of dried and spiced fowl meat, I will barter with this string of molars pried from the neck mouth of Crcyxix, Swampstress of Sighemuunta, removed of course after blinding her eyes by summoning a solar eclipse and confusing her mind with rumors of foxes laying with rabbits in their warrens. Final offer.

BryanChatty: You’re paying to communicate with an artificially intelligent simulation of a human being. I think we’ve jumped the shark on “existential,” don’t you?

My Doppelganger: I know you’re in your bed, Bryan. Why don’t you answer to my scratchings at the window?

Okay, well, needless to say, we are a social species/hybrid-technology and I needed to respond accordingly. So make your choice or connect with them both and let the reasonably-priced oversharing begin!

What Have I Done For You Lately?

You know how when you slip into an alternative dimension and have countless adventures with a half-dog half-rejected leisure suit patent named Good Times Woof-Woof and learn life lessons from a passive-aggressive slow cooker, then eventually you reenter the real world and it’s like maybe a minute of time has passed?

Well, that apparently doesn’t happen when you answer an ad for “Free Industrial Paste” and wake up in the trunk of a 1979 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme. Two whole years go by.

I guess I’ll have to let these intermittent flashbacks fill in the blanks…..I’m on the street, it’s late, got my tub of free industrial paste. I see a sign with an arrow pointing to an alley, it says “MORE Free Industrial Paste”……

That’s all I’ve got at the moment.

In the meantime, I’m sifting through the wreckage left behind by my former bryanhilson.com staff, seeing what can be salvaged. It’s mostly emotional wreckage, so I’m confident I’ll still come out ahead this fiscal year.

And culturally, I’m not worried about what I’ve missed since I’ve been gone. #NOFOMO. I trust that the world is just as stable, reasonable, and sane as it was when I disappeared.

No, my biggest concern is you, dear reader. What have I done for YOU lately? Once upon a time I was a man with a blog and a surplus of industrial paste. Now I’m just a man with a blog. Well, I’m not taking that for granted anymore, or you, or my vocation, or that every trunk in every 1979 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme will have formaldehyde leather interior as a failsafe in case of sudden unconsciousness.  

My fingers are castanets. My brain is a steamboat. It’s clear what I’m getting at.

I hereby pledge to get this party restarted and not be a wallflower. Let’s once again, shall we, spike this proverbial punchbowl?

Back In Business

Photo by ewrdg

Great news, everyone!

After only 10 months, we here behind the scenes at bryanhilson.com have reached a consensus regarding the updated alert sounds fixed to internal communications.

Hoo-ray!

And FYI, per “Addendum A” to the agreement, our CFO will have his thumbs reattached just as soon as the new-content freeze on the website has been officially lifted.

Look, we all knew that Braying Donkey was too subtle, but what was the better alternative? Well, thanks to the focus, hard work, and extortion of everyone involved, we’ll now know an incoming office email when we hear Entire Generations Of Geese Flying Blind Through A Never-Ending Wind Farm.

Additionally, Trello alerts will no longer be Food-Poisoned John Philip Sousa Band On Exploding Steamboat In The Middle Of A Raging Rapids but Well Who Puts Their Bare Hands In The Garbage Disposal instead. Slack messages will switch from Murmuring Dread to Silent Scream In The Breakroom When Janine From Tech Support Shows You 65 Pics Of Her Schnauzers Dressed Up As That Banker From The Monopoly Game.

And lest you think we’ve regulated all autonomy out of the company, ringtones on company cells are at the discretion of the employee. Oh, but with one exception. Per “Addendum B” Trav in HR has first dibs on “Rock and Roll, Hoochie Koo.”  

The blog is back in business!

Responding To My Readers 2020

Hello, my dear readers.

In these unprecedented times, just knowing that you’re out there is a great comfort to all of us in Month 5 of quarantine here at blog headquarters.

How do I know that you’re out there? Well, because I’m hearing from you, and, understandably, you not only want to be heard you’d like a gosh darn response. Please forgive my tardiness in replying, we had 15 seasons of “The Real Abscessed Teeth of Orange County” to get through.

Now then.

First up is Theodor Lutz, who writes: Hey there! Looking for some fun to get into? Me too! Let’s get to know each other on a much more personal level.

Love the enthusiasm, Theodor. Unfortunately, these days it’s hard enough keeping in touch with my existing friends, I really can’t take on anyone new right now. You might consider reaching out to someone in New Zealand. Good luck and keep up that cheery disposition!

Next is a question that came in from Igor2w46: удалите,пожалуйста!

I ran this through our translator and, yes, thank you, Igor2w46, we have enough leeches to see us through at least October. Appreciate your concern, sir, thanks for checking in!

Moving on, here’s longtime reader, first time messager Andrew Kaminski: “I am truly interested in your business model and I would like to ask you to start cooperation with our company. Our marketing tool allows for reducing new customer acquisition costs by 60. Feel free to answer this message for further questions, or for unsubscribe.”

A reduction of 60?!! That’s unheard of in this business. Color me intrigued, Mr. Kaminski. Don’t be in such a rush to get an unsubscribe, my accounting department will be in touch. Dude, 60?! HFS!!

And the generosity keeps pouring in, as reader Rosetta Ficke demonstrates: “This Free course is all you need to Become a Super Affiliate in 30 Days.”

Rosetta, wow, what a small world. I actually escaped from the Super Affiliates back when I was nine, but thanks for thinking of me (and no, sorry, I won’t be able to provide a testimonial for the website).

And finally, this message arrived from reader/customer Sandy Lamble: “My package was damaged for the second time. I made a picture so that you can see what I mean. I hope you can help me solve this problem.”

Sandy, I’m so sorry, I don’t understand the issue. The item you bought from our gift store is called “Damaged Package.” Do you want to swap it for a set of those “fly-in-the-ice-cube” party gags? They’re hilarious, just FYI they are real flies in real ice cubes and will probably melt before they reach you. Let me know.

You Can’t Social Distance From Yourself

Hello, everyone! Let me start by saying I hope that you’re all healthy and safe whether you’re sheltering-in-place or, in the case of Sweden, wondering what all the fuss is about stepping over the bodies of senior citizens to get to that next krog on your krogrunda.

Regardless, if you’re reading this I imagine you’ve exhausted pretty much every other option for entertainment and/or distraction available to you. I say, pretty much, because we all have that 5000-piece Illustrated History Of The Flat Tax jigsaw puzzle in the back of the closet.

Thank you for making this your penultimate stop on a “Only in the event of a freaking global pandemic” tour.

I don’t mean to be overly, if accurately, self-deprecating, it’s just these past 6 weeks have led me to become a little more introspective. I decided that if Shakespeare can write King Lear IV: Spawn of Goneril during a plague, I can sit down in isolation and…………..at least get to know myself better.

Set below is a transcript of what happened next, edited for time and everyone’s steadily loosening grip on their sanity.

Me: Thanks for sitting down with yourself and answering some questions.

Me: I just want to say that I don’t appreciate the subterfuge. I was under the impression we were here to record another “Mama’s Family Episodes” podcast.

Me: Sometimes we need to trick ourselves into doing the hard work. Is now not a good time? Do you not want to self-examine?

Me: Whatever, it’s fine. I don’t have to be on the couch for another 40 minutes.

Me: Great! We’ll start with the softballs. When’s the last time you wore pants that didn’t have an elastic waistband?

Me: You’re trying to trick me again, aren’t you?

Me: I’m asking the questions here.

Me: Pants only come with elastic waistbands, man.

Me: Okay, moving on. If you could be a tree, what tree would you be that’s cut down and pulped to help meet the nation’s merciless lust for toilet paper?

Me: I’d be that anthropomorphic one who records a bunch of PSAs telling everybody to chill the eff out. You know, that one with the fangs.

Me: Related question: Who’s your ideal hoarder?

Me: I’m gonna say “Paranoid-lite.” Terrified of the bidet industrial complex, but good humored enough to eat a cake shaped like a roll of Charmin and not lose more than 3-4 hours of sleep at night.

Me: Wonderful. Good warm-up. Let’s try a tougher one.

Me: Or, we could just record that podcast. Man, remember that crossover episode with “Small Wonder”? When Mama turned Vicki into a moonshine still?

Me: Remember what happened in 7th grade? With the yogurt and the sweat and the locker caddy?

Me: Um, I don’t recall those things ever commingling in junior high.

Me: C’mon, if there’s any hope of understanding yourself, that’s the place to start. Let’s break it down. You never liked that locker caddy, did you?

Me: Look, I wash my hands, I wear my mask. I’m a decent person. I deserve a pass on this one.

Me: When’re you ever gonna have this kind of time to pin yourself down? Why were you so sweaty?

END OF TRANSCRIPT