The date: February 1st (or a couple days before)

The time: now.

The occasion: the site is f*cking live.

That’s right. The Yeah Deed Media site is LIVE.

A few months ago, you could’ve caught me on a [INSERT RELEASE DAY HERE] afternoon loitering outside of a gas station, drinking rubbing alcohol out of a Gatorade bottle. Well guess what, hotshot?

NOT NO MORE, because we got a blog.

Yeah, that’s right. We got a website AND a blog. I’m gonna write about all sorts of shit on the blog.

Here’s a sample of what life used to be like for me. I wrote this thing a year ago:

As I sit in the backseat of my 2003 Chevy Impala, listening to the pitter-patter of raindrops on its cobalt blue roof, I can’t help but reminisce about the time I spent as a young man living in the dumpster behind the Hooters restaurant on Veterans Blvd. in Metairie, Louisiana. I spent what seemed like decades living in that faded red dumpster (I called it “the Bone Shack”), and I don’t regret a minute of it. If any of you readers out there ever have an opportunity to live in a dumpster behind a fast-casual chain restaurant, heed my advice: DO IT!

This was a magical time in my life: this specific Hooters was/is owned by my wealthy uncle Fabian, and I lived essentially rent-free. There were certain Fridays when Uncle Fabian would wake me around 3 AM, flinging coagulated fryer oil at me with a wooden ladle and screaming, “These wings need a-lickin’!!!”, but I always knew that it was in good fun. Uncle Fabian always was a joker. My father even had a saying about him - “he’s just Ravin’ Fabian” (my father was always a bit of a joker, as well).

Anyhow, during this time in my life, every single person I crossed paths with was gracious towards me, especially the Hooters employees. One fry cook, Sebastian, would always toss overcooked fries into the Bone Shack as a bit of a treat for me. I called these tiny, blackened half-fries “fribblets.” I would always shout, “Oh, thank you, Sebastian! Thank you for today’s bountiful fribblets!” and he would always respond in kind, “Shut the fuck up!” It’s that kind of witty rapport that I miss most about the Bone Shack and Hooters.

I still wonder whatever became of Sebastian...especially after the fateful night that changed things forever. I still remember it like it was yesterday. I was in the Bone Shack, licking my fingers, when I heard a distinct rap-rap-rap on the dumpster top. I knew it was Uncle Fabian; he always knocked so gingerly. I popped my head out and surely enough, Uncle Fabian was standing there like usual, dressed to the 9’s in elastic green velour, swaying back and forth with one eye closed.

He threw me a chicken mask and a pair of roller blades, then slurred the words, “Today, my son…is the day you earn…your keep.”


That word salad was what we in the industry call “the rubbing alcohol talking.” Now that I’m not drinking rubbing alcohol every day, think about how good the writing on this blog will be! Anyway, everyone CELEBRATE. The site is LIVE!

- DM

My Other Buddy Devin