As I sat at my keyboard, desperately searching for a topic to write about but finding only trite aphorisms and hollow observances, it struck me. It finally struck me, I should say.
The answer I have been searching for my entire life.
The answer to a question not yet asked, never posited nor even contemplated. A question of self. A question of simultaneous grand importance and of gross insignificance. A question too important to ignore, but impossible to answer.
A man is only capable of finding this answer at the end of a long journey. A journey of sprit, mind, and body. A journey of innocence, of love, of discovery, of disappointment, of heartache, of redemption, and of ultimate sacrifice.
One does not embark on this journey lightly. It is of the utmost import that the journey be fruitful and have a meaning. The journey must not be in vain.
What struck me at that moment was a vivid memory. A memory of my brother.
I was 27 and he was 36. I hadn't seen him for quite some time. Going on a year and a half, which was an eternity for us. He and I were inseparable. Wherever you found Mark, I was sure to follow.
From an early age, I was transfixed by him. Things seemed to come so easy for Mark. He got the girls, had nice cars, plenty of money. It was only when I became an "adult" that I realized that, despite outward appearnces to the contrary, he was as flawed as anyone else. Perhaps even moreso.
We spent many years together developing the drug addictions that would one day take our lives. Some people would say they were taken the moment the addiction began.
I am one of those people.
When I was 27, I saw him again. It was three in the morning, on a Tuesday. I was awoken by my cell phone ringing. My first thought was "I need a new ringtone" followed immediately by "Who the fuck is calling me at this time of night?"
"Mr. Cliburn?" an almost apologetic voice asked.
"Yes."
"Archibald Cliburn?"
"Yes. Can I ask who this is?"
"Yes, this is Mandy Robbins. I'm a nurse at St. Luke's Hospital in Bedford. I have you listed down as emergency contact and next of kin for a Mark Cliburn. Is this correct?"
"Yes, but my brother has lived in Florida for over a year now.... So, may I ask what this pertains to?"
"Certainly sir. But I must ask that you come to the hospital. All I can say over the phone is that Mark is very sick and you are the only person he has been asking for. He refuses to to talk to anyone. Not even his wife."
"I'll be there as soon as possible. Please tell him that. Thank you Miss Robbins."
My arrival at the hosptal was greeted with ambivalence by Mark's family. They were of the belief that it was I who was responsible for his problems. That I enabled him to the point where there was no turning back. No recovery. No redemption.
This was, of course, asinine. I didn't enable him. We enabled each other. That's how codependence works. That's how addiction works. You seek out like-minded individuals who are just as fragile and tormented as yourself, and you make them your life. They are your family, as sad as it sounds. They are your perceived reality, for nothing is real in this world. All relationships are predicated on one solitary fact-- We need to get high.
I was brought to his room and was aghast at what I saw. My once vibrant brother prone, motionless, gaunt. I wanted to cry.
He awoke to me sitting by his bed reading, as I always did when he was in the hospital. An addict's second home is the hospital.
He smiled a painful smile. His teeth had nearly rotted out of his head. He couldn't have weighed more than 150 pounds. I don't know what it is he had been doing, but it was killing him.
We spent a few minutes catching up. And then he asked me the question that would haunt me for the rest of my life:
"Arch... Archie, will you kill me? Please. Just.... Please. I just want it over. Please."
How does one respond to that?
He spent the next thiry minutes pleading with me, listing the reasons for me to do this. The crazy part, some of them made sense.
"How?" is all I could say at that point.
His hand unrolled, and two syringes fell onto the bed.
"It should only take one. But just to be sure..."
"Mark..."
"Arch," he said, the quavering in his voice was heartbreaking, "Arch, please."
We spent the next hour figuring out how to tell the families. He was pretty well prepared for this, I must say.
I took a few paces around the room. I lit a cigarette for us to share before the time came. It was more for him than me. My lungs were so constricted at that point, I could barely breathe.
I approached him slowly, picking up the two syringes. I inspected them carefully. Morphine. One syringe had enough to kill a man three times. And I had two of them.
I brought the needle to the IV stand, looked at him, and began to cry. He cried as well. I managed to tell him I loved him through the tears.
"I love you too."
I depressed the plunger. He shot straight up from the bed, almost into a sitting position. He looked at me again, his lips began to move, but there was no sound. I brought myself closer. With his lips to my ears, I heard his final words.
"Live, Archie. Live whatever life you want. There is no changing the outcome. You can't escape it."
My keyboard catharsis was directly related to that moment.
I realized I still had that other syringe. And it needed to be done.
I laid down on the couch to think about things for a minute.
It felt cold. I sat straight up, gasping for air.
You can't change the outcome. Live the life you want, not the one you are expected to lead.
As I laid there, dying, I looked at the needle hanging from my arm. My head felt heavy, so I laid it down on the edge of the couch. As I drifted away, I heard the faint sound of the front door opening. The last image I remember seeing was a pale, gaunt, shadowy figure, who couldn't have weighed more than 150 pounds...
Monday, November 24, 2008
Saturday, October 11, 2008
A Glutton For Punishment
Ladies and gentlemen, you have just born witness to what I would classify as a microcosm of every relationship I've ever had in my entire life. It followed the same trajectory and had the same ending.
First, there's the initial acquainting of the parties. Its usually quite cordial. I make you laugh, you make me laugh, we share stories about ourselves and eventually we become trusting enough to share some deep secret we keep from most everyone else.
Then there is the middle of the relationship. You get tired of my dumb jokes, I get tired of yours. Suddenly those stories we told each other are not as endearing as we had first perceived them to be. And the secrets? Ha! What we have learned in meantime was far more discouraging and quite frankly, disheartening than anything we ever designated as "secret".
And then, there is the end. One day, with absolutely no readily apparent reason, I'm gone.
No note.
No conversation.
Not even a goddamn email.
Just.... gone.
Like it never happened.
And I rather like it. I've become stuck in my ways, and its too late to change them now. I will go on from one forgettable, meaningless, befuddling relationship to the next. You weren't the first, and by no means the last.
For some reason, I thought when I started this whole blog thing that it would be a natural conduit for my writing. Nay. Instead, it has only sharpened my writer's block and made me less and less confident in my writings. And it became something I never imagined it would: read.
I never intended anyone to read my blog. I never wanted anyone to read it. But people did. So I kept writing. Only now, it was more personal. Which irked me to no end.
I'm a fairly private man. Getting me to share the details of my day at work used to be a chore for most people, let alone the inner workings of my insane thought processes. But you all got a front row seat.
And what's even more nuts? People enjoyed it. What you enjoyed about it, I'll never know.
I just feel that I'm not cut out to be someone who blogs about their personal life. It's not my thing. I fear I've already divulged far too much than I ever really intended.
But I do enjoy writing for you. And with the influx of story ideas I've had recently and over the last few months, I think there is material enough to satiate the people who care enough to read it. And for the ones who don't care, well honestly, I don't give a fuck.
So get ready for a heavy dose of morose fiction, boring drama, and insipid comedy. I'll post portions of my myriad of unfinished plays and essays and short stories that I've never bothered to flesh out. Of course I'll tie a neat little bow on them so that they look new, but let's be honest here. You know it and I know it. There are no more original ideas left to be written about. There are just variations on a tired theme.
We as a civilization will go on telling the same old dumbass morality tales we've always told. The same stories with the same old predictable plots and even more predictable endings. No originality, no pinache, no... I don't know what.
Unless, of course, some mad man tried to change all of that.
But who? WHO DAMMIT?!?!
First, there's the initial acquainting of the parties. Its usually quite cordial. I make you laugh, you make me laugh, we share stories about ourselves and eventually we become trusting enough to share some deep secret we keep from most everyone else.
Then there is the middle of the relationship. You get tired of my dumb jokes, I get tired of yours. Suddenly those stories we told each other are not as endearing as we had first perceived them to be. And the secrets? Ha! What we have learned in meantime was far more discouraging and quite frankly, disheartening than anything we ever designated as "secret".
And then, there is the end. One day, with absolutely no readily apparent reason, I'm gone.
No note.
No conversation.
Not even a goddamn email.
Just.... gone.
Like it never happened.
And I rather like it. I've become stuck in my ways, and its too late to change them now. I will go on from one forgettable, meaningless, befuddling relationship to the next. You weren't the first, and by no means the last.
For some reason, I thought when I started this whole blog thing that it would be a natural conduit for my writing. Nay. Instead, it has only sharpened my writer's block and made me less and less confident in my writings. And it became something I never imagined it would: read.
I never intended anyone to read my blog. I never wanted anyone to read it. But people did. So I kept writing. Only now, it was more personal. Which irked me to no end.
I'm a fairly private man. Getting me to share the details of my day at work used to be a chore for most people, let alone the inner workings of my insane thought processes. But you all got a front row seat.
And what's even more nuts? People enjoyed it. What you enjoyed about it, I'll never know.
I just feel that I'm not cut out to be someone who blogs about their personal life. It's not my thing. I fear I've already divulged far too much than I ever really intended.
But I do enjoy writing for you. And with the influx of story ideas I've had recently and over the last few months, I think there is material enough to satiate the people who care enough to read it. And for the ones who don't care, well honestly, I don't give a fuck.
So get ready for a heavy dose of morose fiction, boring drama, and insipid comedy. I'll post portions of my myriad of unfinished plays and essays and short stories that I've never bothered to flesh out. Of course I'll tie a neat little bow on them so that they look new, but let's be honest here. You know it and I know it. There are no more original ideas left to be written about. There are just variations on a tired theme.
We as a civilization will go on telling the same old dumbass morality tales we've always told. The same stories with the same old predictable plots and even more predictable endings. No originality, no pinache, no... I don't know what.
Unless, of course, some mad man tried to change all of that.
But who? WHO DAMMIT?!?!
Monday, August 18, 2008
Canada Sucks
So I was writing this post tonight about the Olympics and I got really into it. Really into it. And it got ugly. I spent quite a few paragraphs on the Chinese manipulation of the judging, and their blatant prejudice against Canadians. But honeslty, who doesn't hate Canada?
OOOH! We have an extraordinarily low crime rate. Oh, we have such a beautiful country. Everyone here has easily accesible health care. Our air is actually clean!
Just zip it, Canucklehead. You are and will always be nothing more... than America's hat.***
Anyway, I think I may need to edit it down a little, and suffice it to say, I will not be posting it tonight. I just don't have the strength.
I'm trying to have a little self restraint. I am attempting to eat nothing after 8 PM. And this is quite the task for this guy. I love midnight snacks. Pretty much anything will do, ice cream, cookies. You know, the basics. But I like to get a little crazy sometimes. I make this sandwich that has peanut butter and jelly (strawberry jam, to be precise) and I layer over it... Are you ready for this? Potato chips. Swear to God, it's fucking religious. And it's not just for potato chips... any salty, cracker-like product will do. Cheez-its? Sure. Wheat Thins? Why not? Chicken in a bisket? Okay, but don't get too crazy on me here. Garlic and Parmesan croutons? Alright, now you've gone round the bend. Just stop it.
Or Chinese food, speaking of the Olympics. There is nothing better than finishing off your order of General Gau's Chicken silently crouched next to your refrigerator, lights off, being illuminated only by the half cracked door of the fridge. You of course need a little light to make sure that you don't accidentally eat one of those ridiculously hot peppers at the bottom, which BTW, somehow Floyd was fooled into thinking it was a soarerib. I don't knwo who could have done such thing to him. It was hilarious. But I digress. There you are, praying that no one discovers you in your gluttonous state. Well, my gluttonous state, I suppose. What, you guys act like you've never done that before.
Liars.
By the way, what do you guys call Genreal Gau's where you live? I've heard so many variations on it, it's hard to know who the real General was. I mean, we celebrate him each time we order his delicious chicken, along with an order of the shrimp lo mein and some boneless spareribs. I'm just saying, I want to know who the man really is that made such a delectable dish. So please, weigh in.
But ultimately, eating spicy food at midnight is not really a smart move. I used to be able to do it. Now I just get heartburn the whole next day. It's really quite unpleasant. And thus, not worth it anymore.
So I'm going clean again. Without Cold Turkey, as it were. {I'm silently chuckling, and I don't really care if you are too. It pleased me.}
I must end this quickly, as I fear I may not have the strength to write much more. This lack of caloric intake is affecting me in strange ways. Must... have... Saturated Fats!
*** My apologies to any Canadians offended by these statements.
OOOH! We have an extraordinarily low crime rate. Oh, we have such a beautiful country. Everyone here has easily accesible health care. Our air is actually clean!
Just zip it, Canucklehead. You are and will always be nothing more... than America's hat.***
Anyway, I think I may need to edit it down a little, and suffice it to say, I will not be posting it tonight. I just don't have the strength.
I'm trying to have a little self restraint. I am attempting to eat nothing after 8 PM. And this is quite the task for this guy. I love midnight snacks. Pretty much anything will do, ice cream, cookies. You know, the basics. But I like to get a little crazy sometimes. I make this sandwich that has peanut butter and jelly (strawberry jam, to be precise) and I layer over it... Are you ready for this? Potato chips. Swear to God, it's fucking religious. And it's not just for potato chips... any salty, cracker-like product will do. Cheez-its? Sure. Wheat Thins? Why not? Chicken in a bisket? Okay, but don't get too crazy on me here. Garlic and Parmesan croutons? Alright, now you've gone round the bend. Just stop it.
Or Chinese food, speaking of the Olympics. There is nothing better than finishing off your order of General Gau's Chicken silently crouched next to your refrigerator, lights off, being illuminated only by the half cracked door of the fridge. You of course need a little light to make sure that you don't accidentally eat one of those ridiculously hot peppers at the bottom, which BTW, somehow Floyd was fooled into thinking it was a soarerib. I don't knwo who could have done such thing to him. It was hilarious. But I digress. There you are, praying that no one discovers you in your gluttonous state. Well, my gluttonous state, I suppose. What, you guys act like you've never done that before.
Liars.
By the way, what do you guys call Genreal Gau's where you live? I've heard so many variations on it, it's hard to know who the real General was. I mean, we celebrate him each time we order his delicious chicken, along with an order of the shrimp lo mein and some boneless spareribs. I'm just saying, I want to know who the man really is that made such a delectable dish. So please, weigh in.
But ultimately, eating spicy food at midnight is not really a smart move. I used to be able to do it. Now I just get heartburn the whole next day. It's really quite unpleasant. And thus, not worth it anymore.
So I'm going clean again. Without Cold Turkey, as it were. {I'm silently chuckling, and I don't really care if you are too. It pleased me.}
I must end this quickly, as I fear I may not have the strength to write much more. This lack of caloric intake is affecting me in strange ways. Must... have... Saturated Fats!
*** My apologies to any Canadians offended by these statements.
I'm not kidding...
I promise a post by the end of business today. And not a crappy one either, one where I just bitch and moan (a lot) more than I usually do. No, no, no. I promise a good one.
Maybe.
Maybe.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
It's these fahrblunget times we live in. I'm telling ya. It's enough to make ya kvetch.
I've been talking myself out of blogging a lot. I have literally 7's of posts started but ultimately left unpublished. I keep a notebook with me all day, and I write down any brilliant ideas that pass through my mind. But honestly, those are few and far between. Mostly my mind conjures up idiotic nuggets like these:
What's the deal with this guy being such a douchebag?
Why do we need pennies?
Come to think of it, why do we need nickels either? I'm sick of both of 'em.
That girl was way too young to be wearing that.
That woman was too old to be wearing that.
How many times can I hear this one song today? I put the over/under at around 9.
So you see what I've had to work with. For some reason unbeknownst to me, I have lost the ability to convey my thoughts down into my fingers, through them into the keys, and from what I've been told, the words then travel through a series of tubes and eventually, they land on your lap...top. But I can't do that anymore. NOoooooooooo, I am unable to... Case in point, I can't even finish that sentence.
This would be mildly distressing if I wasn't certain that I will eventually figure it out and get back to normal, and Adam will ostensibly have gotten his groove back.
See what I'm saying? Pop culture references from the early 90's! Oy gevald!
Yiddish too Adam?
What a shonde.
What's the deal with this guy being such a douchebag?
Why do we need pennies?
Come to think of it, why do we need nickels either? I'm sick of both of 'em.
That girl was way too young to be wearing that.
That woman was too old to be wearing that.
How many times can I hear this one song today? I put the over/under at around 9.
So you see what I've had to work with. For some reason unbeknownst to me, I have lost the ability to convey my thoughts down into my fingers, through them into the keys, and from what I've been told, the words then travel through a series of tubes and eventually, they land on your lap...top. But I can't do that anymore. NOoooooooooo, I am unable to... Case in point, I can't even finish that sentence.
This would be mildly distressing if I wasn't certain that I will eventually figure it out and get back to normal, and Adam will ostensibly have gotten his groove back.
See what I'm saying? Pop culture references from the early 90's! Oy gevald!
Yiddish too Adam?
What a shonde.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Stop it before you hurt yourself
So this idiot at work has spent the last three months trying to prove to me that he has a broader base of knowledge when it pertains to music than I do. I have to laugh at this guy. Everyday is a an episode of Name that Tune. It's rather bothersome. I'm just trying to make it through the day, and this guy is relentless.
What band did the song "Hello Skinny"?
How the fuck should I know? Oh, The Residents. Silly me. I should have known it was an obscure surrealist band from the 70's. A band so obscure, nobody even knows the names of the people in it. It's true. Look it up.
But he lost all credibility last week, His claim that Kansas was the best band of the last 30 years almost made my head explode.
Kansas. Really?
I wasn't even sure how to respond. I mean it was just...
Kansas? Dust in the Wind, Carry on my Wayward Son, synthesizers and keytars? That Kansas?
For a second, I thought I was getting Punk'd. Then I remembered that that show has been neither relevant or in production for some time now. So I dismissed it. Then I considered the possibility that I had indeed crossed over into... The Twilight Zone.
Because failing that, I have no other explanation for his utterly ridiculous claim.
I did get to blow that guy's mind though. And it was kinda fun. Alanis Morisette's "Ironic" came on the radio (For a supposedly manly place, the music is pretty lame. Safe to say a popular tune there involves a girl who is not really interested in writing a song in which she professes her love to another person, and most especially not if she is writing it because she is being forced to do so. No way, sister. Not this girl)
Anyway, the song came on, and this guy went where any person who is unable to let go of stupid jokes goes.
"You know, none of this stuff is really ironic. They're all just coincidences."
So I, of course, had to set this moron straight.
"Actually, they're not really coincidences at all. Just unfortunate turns of events. And furthermore, if you knew what ironic meant, you would agree that the title is most certainly appropriate. Irony is an incongruence between what is expected and what actually happens. In my opinion, what could be more "ironic" than a song called "Ironic" that contains no actual irony?"
He just sat there. I wasn't sure if it was because he was still trying to figure out what incongruence meant, or if I just completely threw him for a mental loop. But it was kind of funny and sad at the time.
By the way, I have it on good authority that she called the song "Ironic" mainly because "Well, Wasn't That Unfortunate" just didn't have the same Pop! to it.
What band did the song "Hello Skinny"?
How the fuck should I know? Oh, The Residents. Silly me. I should have known it was an obscure surrealist band from the 70's. A band so obscure, nobody even knows the names of the people in it. It's true. Look it up.
But he lost all credibility last week, His claim that Kansas was the best band of the last 30 years almost made my head explode.
Kansas. Really?
I wasn't even sure how to respond. I mean it was just...
Kansas? Dust in the Wind, Carry on my Wayward Son, synthesizers and keytars? That Kansas?
For a second, I thought I was getting Punk'd. Then I remembered that that show has been neither relevant or in production for some time now. So I dismissed it. Then I considered the possibility that I had indeed crossed over into... The Twilight Zone.
Because failing that, I have no other explanation for his utterly ridiculous claim.
I did get to blow that guy's mind though. And it was kinda fun. Alanis Morisette's "Ironic" came on the radio (For a supposedly manly place, the music is pretty lame. Safe to say a popular tune there involves a girl who is not really interested in writing a song in which she professes her love to another person, and most especially not if she is writing it because she is being forced to do so. No way, sister. Not this girl)
Anyway, the song came on, and this guy went where any person who is unable to let go of stupid jokes goes.
"You know, none of this stuff is really ironic. They're all just coincidences."
So I, of course, had to set this moron straight.
"Actually, they're not really coincidences at all. Just unfortunate turns of events. And furthermore, if you knew what ironic meant, you would agree that the title is most certainly appropriate. Irony is an incongruence between what is expected and what actually happens. In my opinion, what could be more "ironic" than a song called "Ironic" that contains no actual irony?"
He just sat there. I wasn't sure if it was because he was still trying to figure out what incongruence meant, or if I just completely threw him for a mental loop. But it was kind of funny and sad at the time.
By the way, I have it on good authority that she called the song "Ironic" mainly because "Well, Wasn't That Unfortunate" just didn't have the same Pop! to it.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Bitch Session
I've been confined to a bed for most of the past thirty hours. I don't have the flu. I didn't break an ankle. There wasn't an ALF marathon on TV Land, though I wish there were. I just loved ALF. I had an Alf sleeping bag for years and years and years. Until it finally wore out from too much use. Now I suppose I'll have to find a new sleeping bag.
No, this thirty hour binge of chain smoking and sleep that borders on comatose was brought on by my arch enemy: Life.
I just fucking hate that guy.
I'm not really going to get into the specifics of my situation, other than to say this is not the first time I've done something like this.
I don't deal with stress very well. It's not wired into my brain to react correctly to fucked up situations. I adhere to a strict policy of hiding from my problems and eventually, they'll just go away.
And that approach has delivered time after time, with consistent results.
I've grown resentful of Floyd. And that's not right. It's not fair to him anymore. It's not his fault his owner is a dirtbag who has no intentions of ever coming back for him.
And I have no real problem with the little guy... other than the fact that I don't want him here. But I can't just give him away to some strange person. Or even someone I know. It's just not fair. He's the sweetest dog in the world, if you can look past his irrepressible hyperactivity. And he deserves a better deal than the one he's been given.
He's not the reason for my current state of angst, mind you. He's merely a player in the wildly unimaginitive stage show that is my life. (It's not a Busby Berkely musical or anything like that. Maybe an Arthur Miller. Or Goethe might be more accurate. There's something almost Faustian about this whole thing. But Faust, if it were written by Joe Eszterhas apparently.)
This post really had no point.
A friend recently pointed out that I seem to have all the answers for everybody else, but I can't answer the same questions when I ask them of myself.
And to that person, I say... you're right. I know it's easy to find the fault in others. And it's just as easy to quickly examine other's situations and offer pointed cogent criticism. But when the time comes to examine my own life, the answers are curiously absent.
It's obvious I need to rethink a few things. This is beginning to get a tad bothersome. Not that I don't like to sleep for a whole day every now and again. But I like it to be of my own volition. Not because I just can't force myself to face an issue that desperately needs my attention.
No, this thirty hour binge of chain smoking and sleep that borders on comatose was brought on by my arch enemy: Life.
I just fucking hate that guy.
I'm not really going to get into the specifics of my situation, other than to say this is not the first time I've done something like this.
I don't deal with stress very well. It's not wired into my brain to react correctly to fucked up situations. I adhere to a strict policy of hiding from my problems and eventually, they'll just go away.
And that approach has delivered time after time, with consistent results.
I've grown resentful of Floyd. And that's not right. It's not fair to him anymore. It's not his fault his owner is a dirtbag who has no intentions of ever coming back for him.
And I have no real problem with the little guy... other than the fact that I don't want him here. But I can't just give him away to some strange person. Or even someone I know. It's just not fair. He's the sweetest dog in the world, if you can look past his irrepressible hyperactivity. And he deserves a better deal than the one he's been given.
He's not the reason for my current state of angst, mind you. He's merely a player in the wildly unimaginitive stage show that is my life. (It's not a Busby Berkely musical or anything like that. Maybe an Arthur Miller. Or Goethe might be more accurate. There's something almost Faustian about this whole thing. But Faust, if it were written by Joe Eszterhas apparently.)
This post really had no point.
A friend recently pointed out that I seem to have all the answers for everybody else, but I can't answer the same questions when I ask them of myself.
And to that person, I say... you're right. I know it's easy to find the fault in others. And it's just as easy to quickly examine other's situations and offer pointed cogent criticism. But when the time comes to examine my own life, the answers are curiously absent.
It's obvious I need to rethink a few things. This is beginning to get a tad bothersome. Not that I don't like to sleep for a whole day every now and again. But I like it to be of my own volition. Not because I just can't force myself to face an issue that desperately needs my attention.
Friday, August 1, 2008
You better be talking about corned beef, buddy.
So, yesterday at work, I had an interesting conversation with my boss. This is the man who would only consider hiring me if and when I passed a drug screening. And I did, because I have been (officially) clean for six months now.
Well, my boss (who shall remain nameless) offerred me an intriguing proposition. He asked me, straight up, if I wanted to buy some hash.
That's... not really helping in my recovery.
The life of a reformed addict is filled with many twists and turns, I suppose.
Well, my boss (who shall remain nameless) offerred me an intriguing proposition. He asked me, straight up, if I wanted to buy some hash.
That's... not really helping in my recovery.
The life of a reformed addict is filled with many twists and turns, I suppose.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Query
How long is too long to go without speaking to someone you would refer to as a friend?
As far as I'm concerned, it's never too long. Sometimes people drift out of your life and there is no good explanation for it. But I would welcome them back in a heartbeat when they finally did decide to return.
Apparently, some people don't feel the same way.
As far as I'm concerned, it's never too long. Sometimes people drift out of your life and there is no good explanation for it. But I would welcome them back in a heartbeat when they finally did decide to return.
Apparently, some people don't feel the same way.
Friday, July 25, 2008
Curse you, Alexander Graham Bell!
Three words. That's all it takes to derail me.
"Mike's in jail."
And who would deliver this solemn and all too serious message? Well obviously, it wasn't Mike. It was Matthew. His (for all intents and purposes) stepson. Which would be cool. If he wasn't 7.
It started as an innocent call to check in on my n'er-do-well brother in Florida. He and I had a less than amicable split both personally and professionally last fall. We owned a business together, then he decided that we didn't. And I was left holding the bag, as usual.
But that's par for the course with Mike. I'm the one who gets the short end of the stick with him. He's 9 years older than me. He's damn near 40, for Christ's sake. He has a family, a house, a good job, and not one bit of common sense.
But, he's away from here. Which was his only goal when he decided to leave. Anywhere but here was the de facto destination of choice.
There's only one little thing... his pesky drug habit. Now I'm not here to throw stones at anyone. My struggle with addiction has been discussed more than few times on this blog. But my brother has elevated dissembling and enabling to a science. He somehow managed to covince me that his main rationale for leaving was so he could get clean, which was something, he said, that he could never do if he remained here. However, I know that the drugs are MUCH cheaper in Florida than they are here. Trust me.
But it was on this basis and this basis alone that I finally acquiesced and agreed to dissolve the business and we would both go on our merry ways. It was his steadfast earnestness that he was only trying to start over and get clean. And, as an addict, I understood that. In familiar surroundings, one can aasily regress to old behaviors and adversely affect the detoxification process. (I'm not a doctor, but I've watched one on TV. So this is definitely some legit knowledge I'm dropping here.)
He left last September. A lot has happened since then. To me. To him, most apparently. And to everyone.
Weeks would go by and we wouldn't speak. Months. Christmas rolled around and amazingly, I received a call. He wanted to leave me his mailing information so the family would know where to mail the presents.
Are you shitting me?
Nary* a phone call for months, and now you expect presents?!
OK. I admit, a fair amount of unnecessary information was just offloaded here. I'll try and refocus.
So I call to talk to Mike. Only he's not there, and Matt answers. And no, his mom wasn't home. Excuse me? You're 7. Where the fuck is everybody, leaving you all alone?
"Oh, well," (And here are those three little words) "Mike's in jail."
"What? For what?"
"He had a suspended license."
I won't get into my brother's criminal history here out of respect, but suffice it to say he has a history of doing very stupid things, and then thinking that he doesn't really need to go to court, because he can "...work it all out later", which is shorthand for "I'm not fucking going to court", which is all well and good, except for the fact that the criminal justice system is a stickler for their rules, and they frown upon you taking matters into your own hands. (Wow, that's quite the run-on sentence. Is there a world record for a run-on sentence? I'd like to try to get in on that if there is.)
So now I'm receiving collect phone calls from the Valucia County Jail. (If I'm spelling that incorrectly, I really don't care. I'm sure they'll spell it right on the phone bill.)
Oh. I see. Now you want to talk. Well, I'd love to talk to you, but the kind old gentleman who recorded that message has just informed me that this collect call will cost $5.84 for the first minute, and $.89 for each additional minute. Great.
So, like the idiot that I am, I talk to him. For about four minutes and 37 seconds. I'm only estimating there, my watch doesn't have a second hand. So, if you prorate the 37 seconds, I owe... about $42.19. (I was always terrible at math. Is that even close?)
Want to hear something even more entertaining than the story I've just told you (Yes, it was meant to be entertaining. How could you not get that?)?
He's called 5 times. FIVE FUCKING TIMES!!!!
According to my calculations, I've talked to him for $29.20 worth of first minutes alone! Adding in the additional minutes, that puts the bill up to right around $675.46.
(That just seems wrong. Man I really suck at math.)
Why don't I just stop answering the phone, is what my sisters have been telling me.
You know, the thought never occurred to me.
Sigh.
Let me put it this way: If I was in prison, I would certainly like my family to answer my phone calls. Unless I did something really heinous, like murder a hobo who was murdering another hobo who was murdering an elderly gentleman who was murdering his wife who was talking to her friend Dolores on the phone about how awful the neighbor's new landscaping job looks. If I did that, then I could understand my family's resistance to my calls.
And yes, I know Michael used up all of his "Get Out Of Jail Free" cards (delicious pun fully intended) a long time ago. But I love him. The only decent and proper thing to do is to answer his calls, talk to him, because he's probably going crazy in there, and then tell him no, he can't have any money. He'll just have sit there until his court date comes, on August 4th.
And I feel even worse, because his birthday is July 30 (Or is it the 31st? Doesn't much matter right now, does it?). He's gonna be in jail on his birthday. Now that just sucks. But I think I finally now know what I can get him for a gift:
A fucking phone card.
Good luck, Mikey. Hoard those cigarettes, remember to hang on to the soap, and watch your cornhole buddy.
* Yes, I really do talk like this. It's not an act.
"Mike's in jail."
And who would deliver this solemn and all too serious message? Well obviously, it wasn't Mike. It was Matthew. His (for all intents and purposes) stepson. Which would be cool. If he wasn't 7.
It started as an innocent call to check in on my n'er-do-well brother in Florida. He and I had a less than amicable split both personally and professionally last fall. We owned a business together, then he decided that we didn't. And I was left holding the bag, as usual.
But that's par for the course with Mike. I'm the one who gets the short end of the stick with him. He's 9 years older than me. He's damn near 40, for Christ's sake. He has a family, a house, a good job, and not one bit of common sense.
But, he's away from here. Which was his only goal when he decided to leave. Anywhere but here was the de facto destination of choice.
There's only one little thing... his pesky drug habit. Now I'm not here to throw stones at anyone. My struggle with addiction has been discussed more than few times on this blog. But my brother has elevated dissembling and enabling to a science. He somehow managed to covince me that his main rationale for leaving was so he could get clean, which was something, he said, that he could never do if he remained here. However, I know that the drugs are MUCH cheaper in Florida than they are here. Trust me.
But it was on this basis and this basis alone that I finally acquiesced and agreed to dissolve the business and we would both go on our merry ways. It was his steadfast earnestness that he was only trying to start over and get clean. And, as an addict, I understood that. In familiar surroundings, one can aasily regress to old behaviors and adversely affect the detoxification process. (I'm not a doctor, but I've watched one on TV. So this is definitely some legit knowledge I'm dropping here.)
He left last September. A lot has happened since then. To me. To him, most apparently. And to everyone.
Weeks would go by and we wouldn't speak. Months. Christmas rolled around and amazingly, I received a call. He wanted to leave me his mailing information so the family would know where to mail the presents.
Are you shitting me?
Nary* a phone call for months, and now you expect presents?!
OK. I admit, a fair amount of unnecessary information was just offloaded here. I'll try and refocus.
So I call to talk to Mike. Only he's not there, and Matt answers. And no, his mom wasn't home. Excuse me? You're 7. Where the fuck is everybody, leaving you all alone?
"Oh, well," (And here are those three little words) "Mike's in jail."
"What? For what?"
"He had a suspended license."
I won't get into my brother's criminal history here out of respect, but suffice it to say he has a history of doing very stupid things, and then thinking that he doesn't really need to go to court, because he can "...work it all out later", which is shorthand for "I'm not fucking going to court", which is all well and good, except for the fact that the criminal justice system is a stickler for their rules, and they frown upon you taking matters into your own hands. (Wow, that's quite the run-on sentence. Is there a world record for a run-on sentence? I'd like to try to get in on that if there is.)
So now I'm receiving collect phone calls from the Valucia County Jail. (If I'm spelling that incorrectly, I really don't care. I'm sure they'll spell it right on the phone bill.)
Oh. I see. Now you want to talk. Well, I'd love to talk to you, but the kind old gentleman who recorded that message has just informed me that this collect call will cost $5.84 for the first minute, and $.89 for each additional minute. Great.
So, like the idiot that I am, I talk to him. For about four minutes and 37 seconds. I'm only estimating there, my watch doesn't have a second hand. So, if you prorate the 37 seconds, I owe... about $42.19. (I was always terrible at math. Is that even close?)
Want to hear something even more entertaining than the story I've just told you (Yes, it was meant to be entertaining. How could you not get that?)?
He's called 5 times. FIVE FUCKING TIMES!!!!
According to my calculations, I've talked to him for $29.20 worth of first minutes alone! Adding in the additional minutes, that puts the bill up to right around $675.46.
(That just seems wrong. Man I really suck at math.)
Why don't I just stop answering the phone, is what my sisters have been telling me.
You know, the thought never occurred to me.
Sigh.
Let me put it this way: If I was in prison, I would certainly like my family to answer my phone calls. Unless I did something really heinous, like murder a hobo who was murdering another hobo who was murdering an elderly gentleman who was murdering his wife who was talking to her friend Dolores on the phone about how awful the neighbor's new landscaping job looks. If I did that, then I could understand my family's resistance to my calls.
And yes, I know Michael used up all of his "Get Out Of Jail Free" cards (delicious pun fully intended) a long time ago. But I love him. The only decent and proper thing to do is to answer his calls, talk to him, because he's probably going crazy in there, and then tell him no, he can't have any money. He'll just have sit there until his court date comes, on August 4th.
And I feel even worse, because his birthday is July 30 (Or is it the 31st? Doesn't much matter right now, does it?). He's gonna be in jail on his birthday. Now that just sucks. But I think I finally now know what I can get him for a gift:
A fucking phone card.
Good luck, Mikey. Hoard those cigarettes, remember to hang on to the soap, and watch your cornhole buddy.
* Yes, I really do talk like this. It's not an act.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
OMG! I have a blog?
Well, sort of.
I promise to be a better blogger.
ByFriday the weekend I'll have a post up.
And a good one too.
Not one of these, "Oh, I've been away,
I better throw a post up to appease the masses."
kind of posts.
A real one.
With jokes.
And poignancy.
And philosophy.
And maybe even a little foul language.
Who the fuck knows?
I promise to be a better blogger.
By
And a good one too.
Not one of these, "Oh, I've been away,
I better throw a post up to appease the masses."
kind of posts.
A real one.
With jokes.
And poignancy.
And philosophy.
And maybe even a little foul language.
Who the fuck knows?
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Another minion is on the way!
Big week here in Adam-land. My twin sister, Amanda, is due to "give birth" this week by Thursday at the latest. I say "give birth" because she's probably going to be induced. This kid just does not want to leave the friendly confines of her womb.
I can't really blame him. Stay as long as you want, fella.
This makes six legitimate nieces and nephews under my control. I am psyched. The oldest ones are nearing the time where I will begin their training. Training for what? World domination. Duh.
I just hope young Gabriel is ready. Yes, Gabriel. For my part, I did my best to dissuade them from naming him that. It was originally going to be Charles, but they didn't like the looks that people gave them when they told them. I tried to get them to name him Adam. When that didn't work, I gave them the name I was going to use for my first born son. Seeing as how I am nearing 30 and have no actual prospects of ever having a baby of my own, I decided to give it to them. "Please," I said. "Name your son Archibald. It's yours."
Can you believe they laughed in my face. Archibald is too fruity, they said.
Good luck, Gabriel.
Yeah, I'd react that way if my parents named me that, too. Sorry pal.
I can't really blame him. Stay as long as you want, fella.
This makes six legitimate nieces and nephews under my control. I am psyched. The oldest ones are nearing the time where I will begin their training. Training for what? World domination. Duh.
I just hope young Gabriel is ready. Yes, Gabriel. For my part, I did my best to dissuade them from naming him that. It was originally going to be Charles, but they didn't like the looks that people gave them when they told them. I tried to get them to name him Adam. When that didn't work, I gave them the name I was going to use for my first born son. Seeing as how I am nearing 30 and have no actual prospects of ever having a baby of my own, I decided to give it to them. "Please," I said. "Name your son Archibald. It's yours."
Can you believe they laughed in my face. Archibald is too fruity, they said.
Good luck, Gabriel.
Yeah, I'd react that way if my parents named me that, too. Sorry pal.
Friday, June 6, 2008
Quietly sneaking back into the room...
I was strolling through the park one day, and it turns out, I missed the entire month of May. I did however avoid being taken by surprise by a pair of roguish eyes...
So I got that going for me. Which is nice.
Just decided to pop in and say hello. Hello. I do have a few things to say, but nothing of any importance. First, when and if you are ever unemployed, please, for the love of all things holy, please do not take the first job offered to you. Especially if said job is in a business you have no prior knowledge of (Yes, I'm ending a sentence with a preposition. What are you gonna do about it?). I have spent the better part of three decades avoiding fixing cars and learning about how they run... And now my chickens are coming home to roost. (That makes no sense. Wouldn't roosters come home to roost? Shouldn't chickens come home to... I don't know, chick?) Anyway, just take this tip from me. If you haven't already, choose a profession that you know a little something about. Otherwise you'll end up working 50 plus hours a week in order to more familiarize yourself with your inventory. Boy, am I glad I went to school for radio broadcasting.
Second, I have started smoking again. It was just too much. I was going insane with the job. And I needed something to make my head stop from spinning, and I couldn't get my hands on any black tar, so I sparked up a tobacco doobie. I'm simultaneously disappointed in myself and proud that I was able to go that long without them. Sure, it was only two months. But it was the longest two months of my life. Be glad I chose tobacco and not the alternatives. I am.
And finally, a big FUCK YOU to my "favorite band": Coldplay.Where the fuck do you get off? I mean seriously? Where do you get off? You may be wondering where the hell I'm going with this. Well, you stay the fuck out of this. This is between me and their pussy of a front man... Chris Martin. I am so pissed at what you've done to me. How could you possibly force me to actually enjoy your new song? You're a fucking monster.
Can I get some rock now to make me feel better?
Thank you.
It feels good to be blogging again. It may be a few weeks before Iremember how to string together more than 3 sentences to form something other than this incoherent drivel get back into a groove. But I'm back. For good.
Are you as disappointed about that as I am?
So I got that going for me. Which is nice.
Just decided to pop in and say hello. Hello. I do have a few things to say, but nothing of any importance. First, when and if you are ever unemployed, please, for the love of all things holy, please do not take the first job offered to you. Especially if said job is in a business you have no prior knowledge of (Yes, I'm ending a sentence with a preposition. What are you gonna do about it?). I have spent the better part of three decades avoiding fixing cars and learning about how they run... And now my chickens are coming home to roost. (That makes no sense. Wouldn't roosters come home to roost? Shouldn't chickens come home to... I don't know, chick?) Anyway, just take this tip from me. If you haven't already, choose a profession that you know a little something about. Otherwise you'll end up working 50 plus hours a week in order to more familiarize yourself with your inventory. Boy, am I glad I went to school for radio broadcasting.
Second, I have started smoking again. It was just too much. I was going insane with the job. And I needed something to make my head stop from spinning, and I couldn't get my hands on any black tar, so I sparked up a tobacco doobie. I'm simultaneously disappointed in myself and proud that I was able to go that long without them. Sure, it was only two months. But it was the longest two months of my life. Be glad I chose tobacco and not the alternatives. I am.
And finally, a big FUCK YOU to my "favorite band": Coldplay.Where the fuck do you get off? I mean seriously? Where do you get off? You may be wondering where the hell I'm going with this. Well, you stay the fuck out of this. This is between me and their pussy of a front man... Chris Martin. I am so pissed at what you've done to me. How could you possibly force me to actually enjoy your new song? You're a fucking monster.
Can I get some rock now to make me feel better?
Thank you.
It feels good to be blogging again. It may be a few weeks before I
Are you as disappointed about that as I am?
Monday, May 26, 2008
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
You take the good with the bad, I suppose.
I don't want to write this. I want to go to bed. I want to lie down and never wake up again. I want to be as insignificant as I used to be. I want to be alone and depressed... that is when I'm truly happy, ironically enough. I am already tired of being a peon.. on the bottom rung again.
I busted my ass for 7 years to get a little respect, and my dirt bag junkie brother goes and throws it down the toilet. He moved to Florida to "get clean". Yeah. Interestingly, Florida is one of the easiest states to smuggle drugs into. But he's getting clean (He said in his most sarcastic tone).
Meanwhile, I'm stuck here truly getting myself clean, and hating every minute of it. I want to get high. I want it now. Don't care how. I'll fucking do whippits at this point. Anything to get normal again. I've been so addled with drugs for the last 12 years, I forgot what regular people's "normal" is.
And you know what? Other people's normal sucks. I like the person that I was. I was funny. I was interesting. I was the life of the party. What am I now? Pathetic, is the first word that comes to mind.
I just want to achieve some semblance of normalcy (my normal, not yours). And right now, I am as far away from normal as I can get. I'm milquetoast. I'm the same as everybody else. I'm nobody. I'm just a guy. Someone easily dismissed and just as easily forgotten in a matter of seconds.
I need to do some thinking. Sorry to lay this on you, blogosphere. I needed to say it somewhere other than inside my head.
{exasperated sigh}
I wish I could just crawl into bed and die already.
I've been fucking up...
Big time.
And there's no one else to blame this time.
The fucking onus is on me.
I've been fucking up...
Big time.
And there's no one else to blame this time.
The fucking onus is on me.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Happy Mother's Day!
For all you moms out there, I dedicate this... to you.
Those of you with teenagers totally get this. All of you with toddlers- well, you'll figure it out.
Those of you with teenagers totally get this. All of you with toddlers- well, you'll figure it out.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
See, it was a muti post day! By the way, bad news...
It is not midnight yet. This is technically a multi post day. I'm not a total liar. Truth is, I'm not really sure what to say. There's a lot happening. I think... I need a few weeks away. I need to reprogram. Stop thinking about it and just stay away from the Internet.
But I will be back. Probably with an overhaul of the site. I've had a few ideas as to the direction of this blog, which was heretofore rudderless and drifting aimlessly in a sea of mildly amusing anecdotes.
Some time will allow me to gather myself and ultimately allow me to achieve my real goal for this blog. That being, Unquestioned Lord and Ruler to all the World.
Needless to say, that plan is in its formative stages, and may be even years away from coming to fruition.
I hope you don't abandon me while I take my respite and revive myself from the creative coma I have been wasting away in recently. I couldn't blame you if you did. And if you do, OK then.
But if you hang around, who knows? You may get to bear witness to my bloody rise to the top of the planet's power structure. I could use some murderous emissaries, if any one's looking for some quick cash. Must be a motivated self starter who is proficient in Word, Excel, Photoshop, and have a highly attuned knowledge of the Black Arts.
Anyway, I will see you all in a few weeks. The site may disappear for a day or two when I decide to return and relaunch later this month. The address will not change. No need to worry about that (I know you were. Admit it.).
Oh, and to answer a few questions raised in the comments section 1) Dawn, the race tickets aren't free. We just have access to good seats. Give me $300 and you can have the tickets. And 2) Sra, re: my voodoo magic with the blogroll. Well, I suppose I can share my secret. For you see, unlike others who erroneously claim to have done it, I actually did invent the Internet. I can manipulate it anyway I see fit, using only the power of my mind. Telekinesis is the new black.
What?
You don't believe me? Okay, would you believe it if I told you...Oh, I don't know... that it's only available on the new Blogger Draft version. So all of you schmoes using something else can just SUCK IT! Teach you to leave Blogger. I mean, it's fucking Google! All hail King Goo-gol.
(This is how I will take over the world; using Google's massive popularity to its own detriment. I will ingratiate myself into its inner circle and...
I fear I've said too much already. )
I'll see you... in the future.
But I will be back. Probably with an overhaul of the site. I've had a few ideas as to the direction of this blog, which was heretofore rudderless and drifting aimlessly in a sea of mildly amusing anecdotes.
Some time will allow me to gather myself and ultimately allow me to achieve my real goal for this blog. That being, Unquestioned Lord and Ruler to all the World.
Needless to say, that plan is in its formative stages, and may be even years away from coming to fruition.
I hope you don't abandon me while I take my respite and revive myself from the creative coma I have been wasting away in recently. I couldn't blame you if you did. And if you do, OK then.
But if you hang around, who knows? You may get to bear witness to my bloody rise to the top of the planet's power structure. I could use some murderous emissaries, if any one's looking for some quick cash. Must be a motivated self starter who is proficient in Word, Excel, Photoshop, and have a highly attuned knowledge of the Black Arts.
Anyway, I will see you all in a few weeks. The site may disappear for a day or two when I decide to return and relaunch later this month. The address will not change. No need to worry about that (I know you were. Admit it.).
Oh, and to answer a few questions raised in the comments section 1) Dawn, the race tickets aren't free. We just have access to good seats. Give me $300 and you can have the tickets. And 2) Sra, re: my voodoo magic with the blogroll. Well, I suppose I can share my secret. For you see, unlike others who erroneously claim to have done it, I actually did invent the Internet. I can manipulate it anyway I see fit, using only the power of my mind. Telekinesis is the new black.
What?
You don't believe me? Okay, would you believe it if I told you...Oh, I don't know... that it's only available on the new Blogger Draft version. So all of you schmoes using something else can just SUCK IT! Teach you to leave Blogger. I mean, it's fucking Google! All hail King Goo-gol.
(This is how I will take over the world; using Google's massive popularity to its own detriment. I will ingratiate myself into its inner circle and...
I fear I've said too much already. )
I'll see you... in the future.
I'd much rather piss off the Pope than piss off Jesus.
The Prodigal Blogger returns.
And this feels like a multi post day. Yes, it certainly does.
I've been neglectful of you, blogosphere. I've been far too tied up in my own wheelings and dealings to worry about you, and your millions of bloggers. I mean, what will the internet do without me there to comment on the inanities and absurdities of everyday life? I fear trouble afoot.
So I must put a post on my site quickly before the Thought Police come and lay the hammer down on me.
Hmm, Thought Police. That's good. Mental Note: Write a book with the bad guy being the Thought Police. Perhaps set it in the future. Working title-- In the future, everyone can hear you think-- or something like that.
Genius.
Moving on.
So, it was time for my walk today, and I received a sign from God. No fooling. ME! The dingleberry, Floyd, and I were walking in front of the Immaculate Heart of Mary Church this morning. As we approached the walkway he looked like he was preparing to do what he usually does: which is this. So he was all prepared, he had the squat going and he was ready to drop. And I, Adam, your favorite faithless heathen, had a momentary crisis of conscience. I know. Shocking. But do I let him take a shit right on the from lawn, while there is obviously a service going on inside the church? I think the clincher was, I looked over and I was staring right in the face of Jesus on the cross. I couldn't allow it. I tugged Floyd's leash and led him away from the church.
He stopped about 30 feet later and did what he had to do. You can't stop nature once you start it. All I wanted to do was delay it a few minutes, but to no avail. He was still shitting right in front of the Rectory, but for some reason, that didn't seem to bother me as much.
And this feels like a multi post day. Yes, it certainly does.
I've been neglectful of you, blogosphere. I've been far too tied up in my own wheelings and dealings to worry about you, and your millions of bloggers. I mean, what will the internet do without me there to comment on the inanities and absurdities of everyday life? I fear trouble afoot.
So I must put a post on my site quickly before the Thought Police come and lay the hammer down on me.
Hmm, Thought Police. That's good. Mental Note: Write a book with the bad guy being the Thought Police. Perhaps set it in the future. Working title-- In the future, everyone can hear you think-- or something like that.
Genius.
Moving on.
So, it was time for my walk today, and I received a sign from God. No fooling. ME! The dingleberry, Floyd, and I were walking in front of the Immaculate Heart of Mary Church this morning. As we approached the walkway he looked like he was preparing to do what he usually does: which is this. So he was all prepared, he had the squat going and he was ready to drop. And I, Adam, your favorite faithless heathen, had a momentary crisis of conscience. I know. Shocking. But do I let him take a shit right on the from lawn, while there is obviously a service going on inside the church? I think the clincher was, I looked over and I was staring right in the face of Jesus on the cross. I couldn't allow it. I tugged Floyd's leash and led him away from the church.
He stopped about 30 feet later and did what he had to do. You can't stop nature once you start it. All I wanted to do was delay it a few minutes, but to no avail. He was still shitting right in front of the Rectory, but for some reason, that didn't seem to bother me as much.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
You're not getting rid of me that easily
Hey hey hey! (He said doing his best Dwayne from What's Happening? impression)
The Flowbots- Handlebars
The rumors of my demise were only mildly exaggerated.
I am, in fact, still alive and well.
But I'm tired.
And I'm muse-less.
I've lost my muse, is what I'm saying.
I have spent so much time worrying about work,
And trying to get my life back together,
I've unfortunately had to jettison some really fun things.
Like blogging, for instance.
And staying up past 10:00 PM.
Floyd is especially pissed at me.
I've been so tired,
I haven't walked him once this week.
He's going stir crazy,
Because I've been there every single day,
For the last few months.
He got spoiled basically.
He's depressed, and he won't eat.
He spends all day (I'm presuming here)
Curled up in a ball waiting my arrival.
I believe this because he takes my slippers
And lays with them behind the couch,
At least he's that way when I peek in the window.
So call me crazy,
But I think he misses me.
The poor, misguided fool.
He should be celebrating,
Not moping.
He's finally free!
He can lick his crotch as long as he wants,
And I'm not there to scream,
"STTTOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOPPPPPPPPPPPPPP IT!" at him.
He can lay in the sun all day,
And then go lay in the shade,
And then go lay in the sun,
And then go lay in the shade.
And then go...
Safe to say,
I am going to do my best to integrate a few hours a week,
To do some blogging.
I enjoy it too much to go cold turkey.
And I'm sure after I get acclimated to the new schedule,
I'll be back on a regular timeline.
I'll do my best.
The one thing I find cool about being on the road
Is listening to more radio than I have recently.
That first song was from the Flowbots,
And their album will "drop" in a few months,
I suggest picking it up when it does.
Another band I've fallen in love with is Vampire Weekend.
A very interesting sound.
Very different than anything out there right now.
I'm a little late on discovering them,
So I could be called a bandwagoner,
But I don't care.
I like them,
And I want to share them with you.
Oxford Comma
Boston
Mansard Roof
That's all for now.
My apologies to anyone I've neglected via email recently, too.
Don't worry,
I'm on it.
The Flowbots- Handlebars
The rumors of my demise were only mildly exaggerated.
I am, in fact, still alive and well.
But I'm tired.
And I'm muse-less.
I've lost my muse, is what I'm saying.
I have spent so much time worrying about work,
And trying to get my life back together,
I've unfortunately had to jettison some really fun things.
Like blogging, for instance.
And staying up past 10:00 PM.
Floyd is especially pissed at me.
I've been so tired,
I haven't walked him once this week.
He's going stir crazy,
Because I've been there every single day,
For the last few months.
He got spoiled basically.
He's depressed, and he won't eat.
He spends all day (I'm presuming here)
Curled up in a ball waiting my arrival.
I believe this because he takes my slippers
And lays with them behind the couch,
At least he's that way when I peek in the window.
So call me crazy,
But I think he misses me.
The poor, misguided fool.
He should be celebrating,
Not moping.
He's finally free!
He can lick his crotch as long as he wants,
And I'm not there to scream,
"STTTOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOPPPPPPPPPPPPPP IT!" at him.
He can lay in the sun all day,
And then go lay in the shade,
And then go lay in the sun,
And then go lay in the shade.
And then go...
Safe to say,
I am going to do my best to integrate a few hours a week,
To do some blogging.
I enjoy it too much to go cold turkey.
And I'm sure after I get acclimated to the new schedule,
I'll be back on a regular timeline.
I'll do my best.
The one thing I find cool about being on the road
Is listening to more radio than I have recently.
That first song was from the Flowbots,
And their album will "drop" in a few months,
I suggest picking it up when it does.
Another band I've fallen in love with is Vampire Weekend.
A very interesting sound.
Very different than anything out there right now.
I'm a little late on discovering them,
So I could be called a bandwagoner,
But I don't care.
I like them,
And I want to share them with you.
Oxford Comma
Boston
Mansard Roof
That's all for now.
My apologies to anyone I've neglected via email recently, too.
Don't worry,
I'm on it.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Who knew work was such...work?
Hola amigos! You know what sucks most about work?
Working.
No, it's actually having little to no internet access. I'm back to working, and it is as crap-tastic as I remember it being. I'm not going to say what company I am working for, except for the fact that it is a national chain, it sells auto parts, and it rhymes with Barquest. But I'm not going to tell you any more.
The one thing that is good about this job is... well, the benefits are nice. But that's not what I was going to say. The one thing is hearing all the rednecks in there prattling on about their cars and telling stories no one wants to hear. Except maybe you, internet. You always listen to crazy, stupid stories.
I have a feeling the wonderful site Overheard in the Office is going to be a little richer for my experiences, is all I'm saying.
I will offer you a few of the "interesting" comments I've overheard, and a few things I need to get off of my chest. Sooooo... OK.
Fat guy (talking about the bad gas mileage of his car): I've got a lot of junk in the trunk.
Other fat guy: Oh, I've got nothing in the trunk,
{Cut to me trying to not burst out laughing from the back room.}
____________________________________
Young man looking for part in store: Oh, there it is. Don't mind me folks, I'm mildly retarded.
Police officer at counter: Town Hall is hiring!
These were just two of my favorites, but there are oh so many more.
Now, I must unburden myself of some things that have been bugging me. And I can't very well say them at work because well, I'm the new guy, and new guys don't get to complain.
To my new boss: Look, I know you're my boss and all, and I have to listen to what you have to say, but I listened to you go on and on about your parrots for 10 minutes now. Is it really necessary to go to your car and get some pictures for me to look at? I've seen a Macaw before. Yours is not much different than that one.
To the guy training me: Hey, old guy! I know I'm on the bottom rung of the ladder here, but don't you think that if I got here an hour before you, I should take lunch before you. That's just science, man. (Sorry for the dated Anchorman reference) Oh, and old guy? Would you mind not eating licorice all day and then breathing on me? And it's not Twizzlers, it's fucking licorice. BLACK licorice. God damn disgusting.
And finally, to the three guys who asked me today, including my boss twice: NO, I am not interested in going to the NASCAR race in New Hampshire next month. I don't care how close it is to the track, how much "fun" it is, how loud the engines are, how much beer you drink. I can think of a million things I would rather do than go to a race. Off the top of my head? I would rather have the old skin sewn back on to the tip of my penis and be re-circumcised than to go to a NASCAR race. But thank you for asking anyway.
OK. I'm glad I got that out. And I swear I'll have a real post for you guys by Thursday. Pinky swear.
Working.
No, it's actually having little to no internet access. I'm back to working, and it is as crap-tastic as I remember it being. I'm not going to say what company I am working for, except for the fact that it is a national chain, it sells auto parts, and it rhymes with Barquest. But I'm not going to tell you any more.
The one thing that is good about this job is... well, the benefits are nice. But that's not what I was going to say. The one thing is hearing all the rednecks in there prattling on about their cars and telling stories no one wants to hear. Except maybe you, internet. You always listen to crazy, stupid stories.
I have a feeling the wonderful site Overheard in the Office is going to be a little richer for my experiences, is all I'm saying.
I will offer you a few of the "interesting" comments I've overheard, and a few things I need to get off of my chest. Sooooo... OK.
Fat guy (talking about the bad gas mileage of his car): I've got a lot of junk in the trunk.
Other fat guy: Oh, I've got nothing in the trunk,
{Cut to me trying to not burst out laughing from the back room.}
____________________________________
Young man looking for part in store: Oh, there it is. Don't mind me folks, I'm mildly retarded.
Police officer at counter: Town Hall is hiring!
These were just two of my favorites, but there are oh so many more.
Now, I must unburden myself of some things that have been bugging me. And I can't very well say them at work because well, I'm the new guy, and new guys don't get to complain.
To my new boss: Look, I know you're my boss and all, and I have to listen to what you have to say, but I listened to you go on and on about your parrots for 10 minutes now. Is it really necessary to go to your car and get some pictures for me to look at? I've seen a Macaw before. Yours is not much different than that one.
To the guy training me: Hey, old guy! I know I'm on the bottom rung of the ladder here, but don't you think that if I got here an hour before you, I should take lunch before you. That's just science, man. (Sorry for the dated Anchorman reference) Oh, and old guy? Would you mind not eating licorice all day and then breathing on me? And it's not Twizzlers, it's fucking licorice. BLACK licorice. God damn disgusting.
And finally, to the three guys who asked me today, including my boss twice: NO, I am not interested in going to the NASCAR race in New Hampshire next month. I don't care how close it is to the track, how much "fun" it is, how loud the engines are, how much beer you drink. I can think of a million things I would rather do than go to a race. Off the top of my head? I would rather have the old skin sewn back on to the tip of my penis and be re-circumcised than to go to a NASCAR race. But thank you for asking anyway.
OK. I'm glad I got that out. And I swear I'll have a real post for you guys by Thursday. Pinky swear.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
We will return shortly
Please excuse the interruption. We will return you to your regularly scheduled programming on Wednesday. Or Thursday.
Whichever comes first.
Whichever comes first.
Monday, April 28, 2008
You load 16 tons...
And whattaya get?
Officially back to work this morning.
This time I swear that it's true.
A minute by minute rundown of my first day is in the works.
Fortunately for you, that was a joke.
Officially back to work this morning.
This time I swear that it's true.
A minute by minute rundown of my first day is in the works.
Fortunately for you, that was a joke.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Off the wagon
Or is it on the wagon? I've never been quite clear on the subject.
I'm such a tard-is.
Wah-wah.
I'm such a tard-is.
Wah-wah.
27 Things That Suck About Turning 27
It was on a dark and stormy afternoon, on the twenty seventh of April, in the year of our Lord nineteen hundred and eighty one, at 4:09 PM that a young man was born who would single-handedly change the face of the universe as we know it. He is still trying to figure out how to go about that. So instead, he has compiled a list of the shittiest things that go along with getting older.
And awaaaaaaayyyyyy we goooooo!
And awaaaaaaayyyyyy we goooooo!
- Being referred to as "Sir" by teenagers. And I suspect it's not out of respect. More likely it's passive-aggressive mocking. And I hate it.
- I am now officially closer to 30 than 20. I know, I was that at 26. But it was easier to rationalize to myself that it wasn't true at 26. Now, there's really no way to get around the fact.
- I'm expected to be responsible for things. I've spent my whole life avoiding responsibility. Now I'm supposed to be the embodiment of it. Blech!
- I make old man noises when I get out of a sitting position.
- My metabolism has slowed waaaaaaaaaaaaaaayy down. I can no longer eat 2 Bic Macs and a large chocolate shake and expect to do anything later that day other than nap. In fact, the thought of eating that right now makes me a little queasy.
- I find myself yelling at kids who are playing on my lawn.
- Next year is my 10 year high school reunion. Totally not going.
- I can no longer refer to myself as "prematurely balding". I am now just simply "balding".
- I have to accept the fact that I might never become a professional golfer. And that sucks.
- Hearing Metallica and Pearl Jam on the "Classic Rock" radio stations. WTF?
- Time to start thinking about the finger.
- At every family get together, I am peppered from all sides with THE QUESTION: When are you getting maaaaa-rried? Well, first I have to trick a woman into thinking I'm interesting enough to spend the rest of her life with (or at least the next 10 years). Then I have to continue tricking her into thinking that being married is what I really want. Then I have to accept the fact that my soul has been destroyed, and I am never going to be happy again. Soooo, next year maybe?
- I can no longer pull all nighters. Seriously, if I make it to midnight, it's a cause for celebration. And how do I celebrate it? By going to sleep, of course.
- Being forced to attend a birthday party for a birthday you do not wish to acknowledge. All I want is to be left alone to wallow in the abject discontent that is brought upon by the realization of my own mortality, crushing the tiny little shred of sanity that I have left.
- Taking vitamins daily. Didn't like them as a kid, and I certainly don't like them as an "adult".
- You say the names Kelly Kapowski and Zack Morris to kids nowadays, and they look at you like you were from the Pleistocene for Christ's sake. If it isn't Hannah Montana or the Naked Brother's Band (whatever the fuck that is), then they have no interest in it. Dumb bastards.
- I have to be very careful. A fall of more than a meter can cause serious damage, putting me out of commission for a week, maybe two. When I was 20, I fell off of a roof 25 feet off of the ground. Not a fucking scratch on me. OK, I didn't fall, but the end result remained the same.
- My idea of a crazy Friday night: Giving Floyd a bath and making homemade caramel popcorn.
- Heartburn and indigestion no longer a laughing matter.
- My impish sense of humor is no longer considered charming. It is now considered juvenile.
- All of my oldest friends are married with children, and I'm trying to get rid of my dog because he's too needy.
- "Getting some herb" no longer means getting some marijuana. It means tending to my garden.
- I have officially spent more years writing my novel than I have chapters (11 years, 10 chapters).
- Dreams are not usually of a sexual nature anymore. They are mostly about finding comfortable pants.
- I have maybe 3 friends that I went to high school with that I still see. That's sad.
- A good day can be made better by one thing: Taking a nap.
- This song now makes sense:
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Oh for the love of...
The most distressing thing about coaching a baseball team with 5 girls on it? Looking out at them in the field and seeing five of these:
Pink baseball gloves? That's worse than almost anything I could imagine.
Pink baseball gloves? That's worse than almost anything I could imagine.
A little privacy, please?
It's hot.
And when it gets hot,
I like to have some room to "breathe".
The one tremendous disadvantage of having a dog,
Aside from the astronomical food bill, stains on the carpet,
And their insidious need for affection,
Is the lack of nudie time.
You heard me.
Anyone who owns, or has owned,
Or has slept with someone who owned a dog,
Knows that they are voraciously curious about our bodies.
And that sucks.
Like I said, it's hot.
And as a man,
We have certain, appendages,
That need to be air dried,
For fear of the dreaded "Crotch Rot".
It's a common malady,
Which all men have, at one time or another, had to deal with.
And it's no fun.
It is like you have stapled two pieces of 150 grit sandpaper
To the inside of your thighs.
The pain is almost unbearable.
Unabashed nudity.
It's the easiest way to prevent it,
And it's also one of the main cures.
After a shower,
Which you must do frequently with "The Rot",
You have to take 20 to thirty minutes to air dry the wedding tackle.
Just let the boys hang out,
Swinging steak.
On a hot July day, it is divine.
Here comes the wrench in the plan:
Dogs.
God damn dogs.
They are so inquisitive,
It borders on stalking.
I would consider getting a restraining order,
But I'd probably get laughed out of court.
I'm serious though.
Every dog I've ever been naked in front of
Has been keenly interested in my junk.
And do not turn your back on them, naturally.
Or you are asking for it.
Turning around practically begs them to stick their noses up there.
I don't know what's so damn interesting.
I personally find the male form repulsive.
But they are just entranced by it.
The second I gear down, he's right there,
With my bits and pieces in his gaze.
And it's like the Mona Lisa,
You know how they say that no matter where you stand,
It seems as if she is staring at you?
Well, this ain't no work of art your admiring, fella.
It's my...cripes, I've run out of euphemisms.
I thought this might happen.
I'm just asking dogs to lay off.
All I want is 25 minutes to air out my naughty bits.
Is it too much to ask?
And when it gets hot,
I like to have some room to "breathe".
The one tremendous disadvantage of having a dog,
Aside from the astronomical food bill, stains on the carpet,
And their insidious need for affection,
Is the lack of nudie time.
You heard me.
Anyone who owns, or has owned,
Or has slept with someone who owned a dog,
Knows that they are voraciously curious about our bodies.
And that sucks.
Like I said, it's hot.
And as a man,
We have certain, appendages,
That need to be air dried,
For fear of the dreaded "Crotch Rot".
It's a common malady,
Which all men have, at one time or another, had to deal with.
And it's no fun.
It is like you have stapled two pieces of 150 grit sandpaper
To the inside of your thighs.
The pain is almost unbearable.
Unabashed nudity.
It's the easiest way to prevent it,
And it's also one of the main cures.
After a shower,
Which you must do frequently with "The Rot",
You have to take 20 to thirty minutes to air dry the wedding tackle.
Just let the boys hang out,
Swinging steak.
On a hot July day, it is divine.
Here comes the wrench in the plan:
Dogs.
God damn dogs.
They are so inquisitive,
It borders on stalking.
I would consider getting a restraining order,
But I'd probably get laughed out of court.
I'm serious though.
Every dog I've ever been naked in front of
Has been keenly interested in my junk.
And do not turn your back on them, naturally.
Or you are asking for it.
Turning around practically begs them to stick their noses up there.
I don't know what's so damn interesting.
I personally find the male form repulsive.
But they are just entranced by it.
The second I gear down, he's right there,
With my bits and pieces in his gaze.
And it's like the Mona Lisa,
You know how they say that no matter where you stand,
It seems as if she is staring at you?
Well, this ain't no work of art your admiring, fella.
It's my...cripes, I've run out of euphemisms.
I thought this might happen.
I'm just asking dogs to lay off.
All I want is 25 minutes to air out my naughty bits.
Is it too much to ask?
Friday, April 25, 2008
Celebrity Crush Time!
It's that time again. And I am truly in love. It's not like the other times. This is real. I am head over heels in love. And nobody can dissuade me from feeling as such.
This week's love of my life comes from the television show LOST. I am a freak for this show. Since the first episode, I have been hooked. I belong to a community of fellow freaks who worship the show the same as I. I never thought that I would ever become a fanboy. Going on message boards, analyzing every second of every episode. But, lo and behold, I am one of those people. And you know what I've found? Those people are awesome. At least the people at my site. They are smart and funny and diverse and not at all what I imagined fanatics to be like. We are reasoned and measured in our considerations. We're like a little commune of hippies. Only it's not pot and acid that are our drugs of choice. It's Jack, and Locke, and Hurley.
And my crush. I know what those of you who watch the show are thinking. It's Kate. And maybe at one time it was. Sure, she's hot. VERY HOT! Exceedingly hot.
But I've grown weary of her vascillations between Jack and Sawyer. Pick one already.
No, my crush is none other than:
That's right. Benjamin Linus. Henry Gale. Benry. Dean Moriarty. Call him whatever you like. He's just fucking awesome. I wish I could manipulate people the way he does. And he does it while making them think that they are in control. He's devilishly evil. And I love him.
When he turns away from whomever it is he just convinced that they are right, and he smirks that Mephestophelean smirk, I just melt. He could imprison me on a tropical island for his own malicious intents ANYDAY. Name the time and place, Ben, and I'll be there. I will kill for you. I will travel through time with you. I will tell you to comb down that cowlick every now and then. But I only do it because I love you.
This week's love of my life comes from the television show LOST. I am a freak for this show. Since the first episode, I have been hooked. I belong to a community of fellow freaks who worship the show the same as I. I never thought that I would ever become a fanboy. Going on message boards, analyzing every second of every episode. But, lo and behold, I am one of those people. And you know what I've found? Those people are awesome. At least the people at my site. They are smart and funny and diverse and not at all what I imagined fanatics to be like. We are reasoned and measured in our considerations. We're like a little commune of hippies. Only it's not pot and acid that are our drugs of choice. It's Jack, and Locke, and Hurley.
And my crush. I know what those of you who watch the show are thinking. It's Kate. And maybe at one time it was. Sure, she's hot. VERY HOT! Exceedingly hot.
But I've grown weary of her vascillations between Jack and Sawyer. Pick one already.
No, my crush is none other than:
That's right. Benjamin Linus. Henry Gale. Benry. Dean Moriarty. Call him whatever you like. He's just fucking awesome. I wish I could manipulate people the way he does. And he does it while making them think that they are in control. He's devilishly evil. And I love him.
When he turns away from whomever it is he just convinced that they are right, and he smirks that Mephestophelean smirk, I just melt. He could imprison me on a tropical island for his own malicious intents ANYDAY. Name the time and place, Ben, and I'll be there. I will kill for you. I will travel through time with you. I will tell you to comb down that cowlick every now and then. But I only do it because I love you.
I was inspired and I made a little kid cry. Good times. Good times.
Much to the chagrin of parents all over my small town, I have been installed as the dark overlord and all seeing despot who is currently reigning over their unwitting children. Translation: I am coaching T-ball.
T-ball is baseball for little kids. You put the baseball on a big rubber tee, and they hit it and run, and hilarity ensues. If you have never seen 6 year olds play baseball, it is really a sight to see. Imagine you live in an apartment infested by cockroaches. You come home from a long days work, so long in fact, that it is now dark outside. You enter your home, and flick on the light. And what happens? The roaches, startled by the light, scatter in every direction, trying to find a place to hide.
This is, in essence, what happens at a T-ball game. When the ball is hit, it usually rolls about 10 feet down towards third base. At which point, of the 11 kids on the field, 9 of them converge on the ball. And when one finally does manage to pick it up, they turn, and look at you, because they have no idea what the hell to do with it.
So you implore them, "Throw it to first! To first base!" They look at you as if you are speaking Aramaic. It is right then that you realize, there is a slight chance that these kids might not know what they are doing.
But it's all in good fun. I have a bunch of good kids. A few of them actually know what a baseball is. Coaching T-ball requires extreme patience. Not really my strong suit. But I manage. To see these kids having fun and laughing and trying their best is actually quite fulfilling.
But I'm not coaching for my own fulfillment. I'm here to win. Anything less than a championship is utter failure. The only kink in my plan: We don't keep score, and nobody wins... EVER. But that meaningless fact doesn't hinder me. I give them the old Lomabardi speech, that failure is not an option. That they can rest when they are dead. That the only thing that matters is winning. Fortunately, while I was giving this speech, all of them were either A) digging in the dirt, B) trying to get their mother's attention, or C) were watching the airplane flying overhead. So my words went unappreciated.
At the end of practice, we have them line up and run around the bases. They have to touch every base, and then give us a high five as the cross home plate. One boy, Noah, who is extremely shy and wonderfully innocent (and also a helluva baseball player), missed third base on his way home. I yelled to him, "You missed third! You have to touch third!"
This precipitated my learning the first rule of coaching: Know your players. Noah, as I said, is very shy. I think he's an only child, and has trouble making friends. Little boys who are shy are also usually hyper-sensitive. My playful cajoling with him went completely awry. There he stood, halfway between third and home, bawling his eyes out. He thought I was yelling at him. Of course I wasn't. But how could he know that? To him, some guy whom he just met was publicly chastising him for making a mistake. And he was not happy about it, and reacted the only way he knew how. I was heartbroken. I tried to console him, but he was (rightfully?) scared of me now. He ran to his mother, and she gave me the "It's okay," look. I plan on making it up to him at practice on Sunday, but I'm not yet sure how.
Until then, I have to take solace in knowing that one kid likes me. Well, two. My niece Kaileen is on the team, and she is contractually obligated to like. But there is this little girl, Katie. She is a doll. I'm not sure she wants to play baseball, but she does, and she tries so hard and gives more effort than any other kid out there.
You see, Katie has Down Syndrome. And despite that, she makes every effort to be normal and do everything a kid her age should do. As well she should. And I love her. She has a helper on the field, who directs her and tells her what to do and when to do it. And she is out on the field, with the biggest smile you have ever seen, loving every minute of it. When it was her turn to run the bases, she took off like a bullet. She missed every base, and tripped a few times, but I've never seen someone have so much fun just to be somewhere. When she crossed the plate, she gave me the biggest high five she possibly could, almost breaking her little arm she slapped my hand so hard. And after, she gave me a big hug, and thanked me. I wasn't sure what for, but I was more than willing to accept it. She is my new favorite baseball player.
To be honest, I almost cried when she thanked me.
I can imagine that this baseball season is going to be more rewarding than any other I've participated in, ever. Because these kids just want to have fun. And I'm all about fun. And I know that eventually, there will come a time when one of them will throw me the ball, and it will hit me in the crotch. And we will all have a good laugh about it.
And it will be the first time that I got hit in the balls and the words "mother" or "fucker" will not have come out my mouth.
Good times.
T-ball is baseball for little kids. You put the baseball on a big rubber tee, and they hit it and run, and hilarity ensues. If you have never seen 6 year olds play baseball, it is really a sight to see. Imagine you live in an apartment infested by cockroaches. You come home from a long days work, so long in fact, that it is now dark outside. You enter your home, and flick on the light. And what happens? The roaches, startled by the light, scatter in every direction, trying to find a place to hide.
This is, in essence, what happens at a T-ball game. When the ball is hit, it usually rolls about 10 feet down towards third base. At which point, of the 11 kids on the field, 9 of them converge on the ball. And when one finally does manage to pick it up, they turn, and look at you, because they have no idea what the hell to do with it.
So you implore them, "Throw it to first! To first base!" They look at you as if you are speaking Aramaic. It is right then that you realize, there is a slight chance that these kids might not know what they are doing.
But it's all in good fun. I have a bunch of good kids. A few of them actually know what a baseball is. Coaching T-ball requires extreme patience. Not really my strong suit. But I manage. To see these kids having fun and laughing and trying their best is actually quite fulfilling.
But I'm not coaching for my own fulfillment. I'm here to win. Anything less than a championship is utter failure. The only kink in my plan: We don't keep score, and nobody wins... EVER. But that meaningless fact doesn't hinder me. I give them the old Lomabardi speech, that failure is not an option. That they can rest when they are dead. That the only thing that matters is winning. Fortunately, while I was giving this speech, all of them were either A) digging in the dirt, B) trying to get their mother's attention, or C) were watching the airplane flying overhead. So my words went unappreciated.
At the end of practice, we have them line up and run around the bases. They have to touch every base, and then give us a high five as the cross home plate. One boy, Noah, who is extremely shy and wonderfully innocent (and also a helluva baseball player), missed third base on his way home. I yelled to him, "You missed third! You have to touch third!"
This precipitated my learning the first rule of coaching: Know your players. Noah, as I said, is very shy. I think he's an only child, and has trouble making friends. Little boys who are shy are also usually hyper-sensitive. My playful cajoling with him went completely awry. There he stood, halfway between third and home, bawling his eyes out. He thought I was yelling at him. Of course I wasn't. But how could he know that? To him, some guy whom he just met was publicly chastising him for making a mistake. And he was not happy about it, and reacted the only way he knew how. I was heartbroken. I tried to console him, but he was (rightfully?) scared of me now. He ran to his mother, and she gave me the "It's okay," look. I plan on making it up to him at practice on Sunday, but I'm not yet sure how.
Until then, I have to take solace in knowing that one kid likes me. Well, two. My niece Kaileen is on the team, and she is contractually obligated to like. But there is this little girl, Katie. She is a doll. I'm not sure she wants to play baseball, but she does, and she tries so hard and gives more effort than any other kid out there.
You see, Katie has Down Syndrome. And despite that, she makes every effort to be normal and do everything a kid her age should do. As well she should. And I love her. She has a helper on the field, who directs her and tells her what to do and when to do it. And she is out on the field, with the biggest smile you have ever seen, loving every minute of it. When it was her turn to run the bases, she took off like a bullet. She missed every base, and tripped a few times, but I've never seen someone have so much fun just to be somewhere. When she crossed the plate, she gave me the biggest high five she possibly could, almost breaking her little arm she slapped my hand so hard. And after, she gave me a big hug, and thanked me. I wasn't sure what for, but I was more than willing to accept it. She is my new favorite baseball player.
To be honest, I almost cried when she thanked me.
I can imagine that this baseball season is going to be more rewarding than any other I've participated in, ever. Because these kids just want to have fun. And I'm all about fun. And I know that eventually, there will come a time when one of them will throw me the ball, and it will hit me in the crotch. And we will all have a good laugh about it.
And it will be the first time that I got hit in the balls and the words "mother" or "fucker" will not have come out my mouth.
Good times.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Taking the reins
Wilkommen! Floyd here. I'm doing Adam a favor and writing a few posts for him, because everyone loves me, and I know that you just tolerate Adam. But to hear him tell it, he's under the impression that he's the brains behind our little operation, and I'm just window dressing. Very sexy window dressing, but window dressing nonetheless. But I'm sure you guys are smart enough to know who the real brains are, and it isn't the one of us who only has two legs and pees in a toilet.
Adam couldn't even get a job without my help. I was forced to pull a few strings for him. I got the word out, via my numerous unnamed contacts, that he needed work, and the grapevine led to the right people. And it's nice that he's working, but... well, I don't even want to tell you about the things I had to do to get him the job. Let's just say I had to spend more than a few hours lying on my back, and you can construe that any way you like.
Let's see, what should I talk about today? Either my hilarious misadventures with the moose, or why I'm so depressed and how I deal with it. They're both uproariously funny, in their own special ways.
How about the moose? That's the more lighthearted story, and I'm not in the place I need to be to write about depression. So, the moose it is.
The dipwad and I were walking on Monday, and sometime around the end of the walk, a car stopped us and asked a question.
"Are you going all the way down this street?" the kind older woman curiously probed.
Let me see, unless I want to cut through swampland, 10 different people's yards, and a brier patch, then yes, we might be going all the way down this street. Some people.
"Well, I just wanted to tell you that it might not be a good idea. There's a moose down there. And he might bark at it."
O-kay. Is barking against the law? I know Bush has enacted some strange laws, curtailing most of our civil liberties, but I had assumed barking was an inalienable right. Is it not keeping within your idea of what a dog should do, lady? If it will make you feel better, I'll try to contain myself. She was right. however. I would bark at it. I might even try to fight it if the urge struck me. Knowing this, Adam had the exact same impulse that I had:
We better run like hell to go see that moose!
I think he wanted me to fight it. I can't be sure, but I think that was the case. And I would have too, if I wasn't constrained by this damn harness. We approached the area where "Crazy old lady who warned us about the moose" had said it would be. There was a clearing in the woods, leading to a path. Should we take it, or shouldn't we? We both gave it the sufficient amount of thought, and 5 seconds later we were heading down the path. I could smell it immediately. It smelled unlike anything I have ever tracked before.
You see, while we do live in the boondocks of Massachusetts, it is still somewhat civilized. The only moose Adam had ever seen was one that had just had an unfortunate meeting with a semi-trailer. And that moose wasn't in the best of shape. So he was as eager as I to get a good look at this one. We followed the path to its end, but alas, there was no moose to be found. Lying bitch.
We were certainly crestfallen, to say the least. After considering our options, we decided to head back down the trail and back to the house. As we began back, we turned around, and were surprised to find ourselves staring right into the grinning maw of an eight foot tall, 1000 plus pound moose. He was right in the path! Six feet away from us! This was so incredible. Nature at its finest. This majestic creature was standing right there, not on some nature show, right there. I was in awe of its sheer immensity.
I had already decided what I would do: I was going to fight it. Sure, I'm maybe 19 inches tall, on a good day. And if I had been working out, you could call me perhaps 22 pounds. But I knew I could take the fucker. All I had to do was position myself underneath the massive beast, take one leap upwards and grab on to his throat. The story would be over in 5 minutes, after I drained from him the will to live. It would be quite easy. I made a quick, lurching motion towards him. He was startled.
Yeah, I knew it. He was afraid of me. I would now make my move on him. I took off like a jack rabbit, intent on taking down this monster and thus saving the neighborhood from the menace that was he. I would be a considered a hero. Tomorrow's newspaper headlines would read "Local Dog Saves Day, Receives Giant Milk Bone For Efforts". And that would be quite alright. I could live with the fame. He would have to live (or not live) with the ignominious distinction of being felled by an animal 1/50th his size. Truly a David and Goliath story if there ever was one.
All of these wonderful thoughts were running through my head, when suddenly, out of nowhere, my harness snaps to attention, pulling me back towards Adam and leaving one hell of a mark on my little chest.
He scooped me up and we tucked our tails and ran headlong past the moose, leaving our own trail of ignominy in our wake. Just shameful.
The morning papers would not tell of my glorious victory over this indefatigable foe. If anything, they would read "Cowardly man and his devastatingly handsome dog run like little girls from a gentle giant!"
This simply would not stand. They would go about characterizing this beast as harmless, and merely lost and looking for its family. No, no. Not when we knew the truth of the situation. We could see the blood lust in its eyes, smell the acrid smell of rotting human flesh emanating off of him. This animal had killed before. And someday, it will kill again. And it must be stopped. And I can think of no one else to do the job. I am making plans for a group of us dogs to escape and take out the maniacal moose. Come hell or high water, he will be disposed of and disposed of with extreme prejudice. Soon enough, he will no longer be bothering our quiet little town. But that time will be some other day. Because Cam and Ginger pussied out. I will have to do this alone. I believe it to be my destiny. And I will fulfill my destiny. I am destined to. I am assured of reaching my destination. (Are we clear on this whole destiny thing? I can't possibly be any more overt in my declarations.)
Interestingly enough, last night Adam was informed that there was another of Mother Nature's creatures stalking the neighborhood. A black bear was spotted in someones yard, pawing at their bird feeder.
I knew what I had to do. I got to Adam, and told him exactly how we should handle this situation:
He should call animal control and have them take care of it. Are you crazy, I ain't fighting no bear. Those things will FUCK YOU UP!
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Ink'd
I've been seriously considering getting a tattoo recently. I've never really understood tattoos. Why would you willingly desecrate your own body? And they are usually impulsive choices people get. Why would a grown man want a tattoo of Toucan Sam riding a motorcycle?
But I've thought about it. I think I might be one of those people who could get a tattoo. Not anything stupid. No cartoon characters. I won't put a girl's name on it, because with my luck, she'd either change her name or dump me immediately, so it would be useless.
No, I want something practical. Some of my considerations:
The Boston "B". I love the Red Sox, and they would never break up with me. At least I don't think they would. Maybe I should hedge my bets and not pick this one, just in case.
I could go the utilitarian route. Have a shopping list tattooed on my arm: milk, bread, asparagus, Jergen's triple action moisturizing hand cream. You know, the essentials. Nothing I don't buy every time I go to the market. Just a friendly reminder, emblazoned on my forearm (A MASSIVE forearm, btw. See number 4 on the list) just saying, "Hey, you need these things." I'm seriously considering this.
Perhaps a famous work of art? Like the Last Supper on my chest. Or the Thinker on my left ass cheek. Why left? Because the right would seem pretentious. Or maybe American Gothic on my back. That would be sweet! Not likely to go in this direction, as I presume it would be a mite expensive.
Honestly, these are the only ideas I've had, and I'm not totally in love with any of them. Anybody have any suggestions?
But I've thought about it. I think I might be one of those people who could get a tattoo. Not anything stupid. No cartoon characters. I won't put a girl's name on it, because with my luck, she'd either change her name or dump me immediately, so it would be useless.
No, I want something practical. Some of my considerations:
The Boston "B". I love the Red Sox, and they would never break up with me. At least I don't think they would. Maybe I should hedge my bets and not pick this one, just in case.
I could go the utilitarian route. Have a shopping list tattooed on my arm: milk, bread, asparagus, Jergen's triple action moisturizing hand cream. You know, the essentials. Nothing I don't buy every time I go to the market. Just a friendly reminder, emblazoned on my forearm (A MASSIVE forearm, btw. See number 4 on the list) just saying, "Hey, you need these things." I'm seriously considering this.
Perhaps a famous work of art? Like the Last Supper on my chest. Or the Thinker on my left ass cheek. Why left? Because the right would seem pretentious. Or maybe American Gothic on my back. That would be sweet! Not likely to go in this direction, as I presume it would be a mite expensive.
Honestly, these are the only ideas I've had, and I'm not totally in love with any of them. Anybody have any suggestions?
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
I'm a moron
Still getting used to this new Blogger edition. I may have posted something I had meant to post later in the week. If you read it, then consider yourself ahead of the game. If not, well, wait until Thursday and you will have your chance.
Adam, it's the Governor.... for you.
Well, thanks to Paul Revere*,
I am not working today.
I was fully expecting to be at work this morning.
But I'm not.
Instead, I'm watering my lawn,
And clearing more brush,
And stockpiling generic blog posts,
For when I don't feel like writing when I am working.
But Paul Revere decided that yesterday
(Well, not yesterday yesterday)
Would be a good day to start the American Revolution.
Well, he didn't start it.
The British did.
Well, the British didn't really,
American Colonists did.
Well, not so much them,
As it was the salutary neglect exhibited by a hundred years
Of British Monarchs.
Well...
You know, I could take this all the way back to Imperial Rome,
But I'm not going to.
Yesterday was Patriot's Day.
I don't imagine it's a big deal wherever you are,
Especially my foreign readers,
And most especially my British readers
(It's still a sore subject across the pond).
But here, in Massachusetts,
The cradle of Democracy
(Fuck you Philadelphia. And Ancient Greece.),
It's a big deal.
We have Revolutionary War re-enactments of the first battle,
At Lexington and Concord,
And all sorts of other BS.
Like the Boston Marathon.
And the Red Sox playing at 10 in the morning.
We... Massachusetts-ians?
Massachusetts-ites?
We Mass-Holes are proud of our heritage.
We like to point out to anyone and everyone,
That if we hadn't existed,
We would all be speaking with effeminate British accents
And drinking tea.
And although I do drink tea,
It's not because I'm a loyalist.
No, no, I am most certainly not loyal to King George,
The tyrannical madman.
I just enjoy tea.
What was my point?
Oh, yes, my job.
Well, apparently, Patriot's Day is a really big deal.
The place that did my drug test was not open.
So it couldn't relay my results to the home office in Schenectady.
And that means that I am, for another day at least,
Still unemployed.
And it is nice.
I like having a little reprieve.
But I would much rather be at work being paid not to work.
Here, I'm just not working.
And it's fun, but I'm certainly not getting paid.
*Paul Revere was a pussy. Read this and expand your knowledge of the Revolution.
I am not working today.
I was fully expecting to be at work this morning.
But I'm not.
Instead, I'm watering my lawn,
And clearing more brush,
And stockpiling generic blog posts,
For when I don't feel like writing when I am working.
But Paul Revere decided that yesterday
(Well, not yesterday yesterday)
Would be a good day to start the American Revolution.
Well, he didn't start it.
The British did.
Well, the British didn't really,
American Colonists did.
Well, not so much them,
As it was the salutary neglect exhibited by a hundred years
Of British Monarchs.
Well...
You know, I could take this all the way back to Imperial Rome,
But I'm not going to.
Yesterday was Patriot's Day.
I don't imagine it's a big deal wherever you are,
Especially my foreign readers,
And most especially my British readers
(It's still a sore subject across the pond).
But here, in Massachusetts,
The cradle of Democracy
(Fuck you Philadelphia. And Ancient Greece.),
It's a big deal.
We have Revolutionary War re-enactments of the first battle,
At Lexington and Concord,
And all sorts of other BS.
Like the Boston Marathon.
And the Red Sox playing at 10 in the morning.
We... Massachusetts-ians?
Massachusetts-ites?
We Mass-Holes are proud of our heritage.
We like to point out to anyone and everyone,
That if we hadn't existed,
We would all be speaking with effeminate British accents
And drinking tea.
And although I do drink tea,
It's not because I'm a loyalist.
No, no, I am most certainly not loyal to King George,
The tyrannical madman.
I just enjoy tea.
What was my point?
Oh, yes, my job.
Well, apparently, Patriot's Day is a really big deal.
The place that did my drug test was not open.
So it couldn't relay my results to the home office in Schenectady.
And that means that I am, for another day at least,
Still unemployed.
And it is nice.
I like having a little reprieve.
But I would much rather be at work being paid not to work.
Here, I'm just not working.
And it's fun, but I'm certainly not getting paid.
*Paul Revere was a pussy. Read this and expand your knowledge of the Revolution.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
But can you do the Freddy?
I had my nieces, Kaileen and Arianna,
Over for breakfast this morning.
Our conversation turned,
As it invariably does,
To existentialism.
Kaileen, age 6 (Almost 7),
Made some random comment about somebody being dead.
I made the remark that everybody is dead in some way.
I, for instance,
Am dead inside, I told her.
She, who is far too quick for her age,
Responded by saying,
"I'm not dead inside."
Ari, age 4, listening intently,
Commented that she isn't dead inside either.
"I'm a robot inside!"
And she proceeded to break it down and do the robot dance!
"I...am...a...robot."
I actually fell on the floor laughing.
Ari 2-D2 is a frickin' nutjob.
Over for breakfast this morning.
Our conversation turned,
As it invariably does,
To existentialism.
Kaileen, age 6 (Almost 7),
Made some random comment about somebody being dead.
I made the remark that everybody is dead in some way.
I, for instance,
Am dead inside, I told her.
She, who is far too quick for her age,
Responded by saying,
"I'm not dead inside."
Ari, age 4, listening intently,
Commented that she isn't dead inside either.
"I'm a robot inside!"
And she proceeded to break it down and do the robot dance!
"I...am...a...robot."
I actually fell on the floor laughing.
Ari 2-D2 is a frickin' nutjob.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
"Some old guy"? Fuck you, you damn whippersnapper!
I'm old. Not so much chronologically, but apparently, to teenagers, I'm old. That sucks. I never wanted to get old. I tried my best to avoid it. And I thought I was winning the war until today.
It all started because I forgot to go play basketball this morning. I try to play every Saturday. I try. But today I was busy. Busy with 1) sleeping until 10 AM, which is nice, and something I won't be able to do for much longer. And for 2) I went to the Salvation Army store, which is a place I could spend hours and hours and hours at, and get 20 different things, and still only spend 30 bucks. It's awesome.
So it was a confluence of events that kept me from my routine. I felt guilty this afternoon, partly because I didn't go play and felt lazy, and partly because I ate half a pound cake in 20 minutes. So, guilt ridden, I got my sneakers and headed out to at least go break a sweat shooting some hoops.
I had no idea what I was in for. Upon my arrival, I was encountered with a choice. There were two groups of guys playing. One was teenagers. The other was 40 year old men wearing goggles. I weighed my options, and decided to not play with the goggle gang, and jumped in with the kids.
"Can I get get in?" I asked.
"Yeah. Can you play?"
Should I lie and sandbag them, or tell the truth?
"All State, 1999," I tell them. (Totally a lie. I'm good, but not that good.)
"Let's go then!"
At this point, I was made aware of how these kids viewed me. There was four of them, and I made 5. To even it out, they yelled to a buddy of theirs on his BMX (Do they still call a freestyle bike a BMX?) to come play.
"Hey, Eric, let's go. Some old guy is jumping in. We need you!"
Sonofabitch. Dude, I'm 26. OK, almost 27 (The twenty seventh everyone. That's next Sunday! I expect presents!). Is that old? I don't think so. But I suppose to them, I am. They asked me when I graduated high school.
"1999," I tell them. Apparently graduating in the last century makes you old. More than one of them let out an audible gasp. Sons of bitches.
So we played three on three for a while. I showed them just how old I really am. I'm not in the best shape of my life, to be sure. In fact, I've spent the last 3 months falling out of shape. But I can still play. I hit my shots, I made some sweet passes, behind the back, through their legs, crisp bounce passes, I ran the gamut. I impressed these young punks who are in the best shape they will ever be in for the rest of their life. If I could be in the shape I was when I was 16, I'd be a happy man. But I'm not.
Surprisingly, they were the ones huffing and puffing afterwards. I was doing my fair share of panting, but they were BEAT! I had proven to them, and most importantly to myself, that I'm not an old geezer. I can still hang with the kids. I threw a good amount of elbows, and so did they. But I wasn't going to be pushed around. My 6'3 frame was a virtual brick wall of indestructibility. On the outside.
On the inside, the wall was losing its support structure. It was crumbling down. But I never let on.
I got home, too tired to even lick my own wounds. Thank God for Floyd. He's a good licker of wounds. And his crotch, but also wounds. After a 30 minute shower that was absolutely WONDERFUL, I sat down to my after-ball cup of tea and my book, some Kurt Vonnegut, because Sisyphus hasn't come in yet, damn library, and I realized something.
The dumb bastards were right: I am old. Not so much chronologically, but physically, I'm elderly. I had ice on my knee, a heating pad for my back, and a cup of Earl Grey (yes, I'm a dandy).
If that doesn't scream "Old Man", then I don't know what would.
Perhaps the lingering scent of Ben-Gay in the air?
It all started because I forgot to go play basketball this morning. I try to play every Saturday. I try. But today I was busy. Busy with 1) sleeping until 10 AM, which is nice, and something I won't be able to do for much longer. And for 2) I went to the Salvation Army store, which is a place I could spend hours and hours and hours at, and get 20 different things, and still only spend 30 bucks. It's awesome.
So it was a confluence of events that kept me from my routine. I felt guilty this afternoon, partly because I didn't go play and felt lazy, and partly because I ate half a pound cake in 20 minutes. So, guilt ridden, I got my sneakers and headed out to at least go break a sweat shooting some hoops.
I had no idea what I was in for. Upon my arrival, I was encountered with a choice. There were two groups of guys playing. One was teenagers. The other was 40 year old men wearing goggles. I weighed my options, and decided to not play with the goggle gang, and jumped in with the kids.
"Can I get get in?" I asked.
"Yeah. Can you play?"
Should I lie and sandbag them, or tell the truth?
"All State, 1999," I tell them. (Totally a lie. I'm good, but not that good.)
"Let's go then!"
At this point, I was made aware of how these kids viewed me. There was four of them, and I made 5. To even it out, they yelled to a buddy of theirs on his BMX (Do they still call a freestyle bike a BMX?) to come play.
"Hey, Eric, let's go. Some old guy is jumping in. We need you!"
Sonofabitch. Dude, I'm 26. OK, almost 27 (The twenty seventh everyone. That's next Sunday! I expect presents!). Is that old? I don't think so. But I suppose to them, I am. They asked me when I graduated high school.
"1999," I tell them. Apparently graduating in the last century makes you old. More than one of them let out an audible gasp. Sons of bitches.
So we played three on three for a while. I showed them just how old I really am. I'm not in the best shape of my life, to be sure. In fact, I've spent the last 3 months falling out of shape. But I can still play. I hit my shots, I made some sweet passes, behind the back, through their legs, crisp bounce passes, I ran the gamut. I impressed these young punks who are in the best shape they will ever be in for the rest of their life. If I could be in the shape I was when I was 16, I'd be a happy man. But I'm not.
Surprisingly, they were the ones huffing and puffing afterwards. I was doing my fair share of panting, but they were BEAT! I had proven to them, and most importantly to myself, that I'm not an old geezer. I can still hang with the kids. I threw a good amount of elbows, and so did they. But I wasn't going to be pushed around. My 6'3 frame was a virtual brick wall of indestructibility. On the outside.
On the inside, the wall was losing its support structure. It was crumbling down. But I never let on.
I got home, too tired to even lick my own wounds. Thank God for Floyd. He's a good licker of wounds. And his crotch, but also wounds. After a 30 minute shower that was absolutely WONDERFUL, I sat down to my after-ball cup of tea and my book, some Kurt Vonnegut, because Sisyphus hasn't come in yet, damn library, and I realized something.
The dumb bastards were right: I am old. Not so much chronologically, but physically, I'm elderly. I had ice on my knee, a heating pad for my back, and a cup of Earl Grey (yes, I'm a dandy).
If that doesn't scream "Old Man", then I don't know what would.
Perhaps the lingering scent of Ben-Gay in the air?
Been dreaming since I woke up today.
Tunes running through my head today.
Daydream
A pie in the face for being a sleepy bull toad.
Shangri La
Acute Paranoia Schizophrenia Blues
And unfortunately, this:
Daydream
A pie in the face for being a sleepy bull toad.
Shangri La
Acute Paranoia Schizophrenia Blues
And unfortunately, this:
Friday, April 18, 2008
In the kitchen with Adam
Hello boys and girls.
I'm here today to offer you a few helpful tips,
From my kitchen to yours.
Tip Number One
Never, no matter how tempting it seems,
Never ever EVER
Fry ground beef without a shirt on.
Now, I know the ladies out there are saying,
"But Adam, I always fry meat shirtless!"
To that I say,
That's hot.
But it's also very dangerous.
VERY VERY DANGEROUS!
Unless you would like your stomach, and
Ahem,
Lady parts,
Spattered with thousand degree oil,
Don't do it.
I am currently nursing 2nd degree burns,
Located on my lady parts.
Tip Number Two
Never eat magically appearing food.
I saw a Tupperware container on the counter,
Opened it up,
And SCORE!
It was filled with delicious stir fry.
After a cursory inspection,
For both edibility,
And for anyone looking to thwart my eating their stir fry,
I gobbled up the delicious pea pods,
Mushrooms, and quite a few slices of beef.
Cut to twenty minutes later,
When someone walks into the kitchen,
And proceeds to dump the stir fry in the trash.
"You just threw that away? I would've eaten that!"
To which they respond,
"That has been in the fridge for 3 months."
Oh, no.
If I do get sick,
And right now it seems a foregone conclusion,
This will be the THIRD time in the last year
That I have given myself,
Not gotten,
GIVEN MYSELF
Food poisoning.
Yeah, I'm a frickin genius.
I fear this weekend will not go well.
I'm here today to offer you a few helpful tips,
From my kitchen to yours.
Tip Number One
Never, no matter how tempting it seems,
Never ever EVER
Fry ground beef without a shirt on.
Now, I know the ladies out there are saying,
"But Adam, I always fry meat shirtless!"
To that I say,
That's hot.
But it's also very dangerous.
VERY VERY DANGEROUS!
Unless you would like your stomach, and
Ahem,
Lady parts,
Spattered with thousand degree oil,
Don't do it.
I am currently nursing 2nd degree burns,
Located on my lady parts.
Tip Number Two
Never eat magically appearing food.
I saw a Tupperware container on the counter,
Opened it up,
And SCORE!
It was filled with delicious stir fry.
After a cursory inspection,
For both edibility,
And for anyone looking to thwart my eating their stir fry,
I gobbled up the delicious pea pods,
Mushrooms, and quite a few slices of beef.
Cut to twenty minutes later,
When someone walks into the kitchen,
And proceeds to dump the stir fry in the trash.
"You just threw that away? I would've eaten that!"
To which they respond,
"That has been in the fridge for 3 months."
Oh, no.
If I do get sick,
And right now it seems a foregone conclusion,
This will be the THIRD time in the last year
That I have given myself,
Not gotten,
GIVEN MYSELF
Food poisoning.
Yeah, I'm a frickin genius.
I fear this weekend will not go well.
Big Day
To pee, or not to pee;
That is the question.
I'm going with the former and not the latter.
I really need that job.
_____________________________________________
UPDATE at 4:30 PM EDT
Vini, Vidi, Urini.
I came, I saw, I peed in a cup.
VICTORY IS MINE!
That is the question.
I'm going with the former and not the latter.
I really need that job.
_____________________________________________
UPDATE at 4:30 PM EDT
Vini, Vidi, Urini.
I came, I saw, I peed in a cup.
VICTORY IS MINE!
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Half the frequency, Twice the quality!
Good news and bad news kiddies.
Good news:
I am now,
Pending the result of a drug screen tomorrow,
Gainfully employed.
This is good news as it allows me to actually earn money,
Instead of mooching off of family and friends.
Bad news, it's going to seriously cut into my blogging time.
So I will most likely be posting less often.
Maybe 4 times a week.
But this job is one where I have to drive around a lot,
So it will enable me to think about blogging while working.
Although, this being a new job,
I should probably concentrate on doing good work in the short term,
As opposed to writing blog posts in traffic.
So consequentially, there will be more posts like this,
Off the cuff, no actual composition,
Free flowing illogical rants.
Long time readers will be used to this method.
Newer readers are going to have to get used to it,
Or just stop coming here.
I'm going to spend the next few days writing like a madman.
Thanks to Blogger's new format,
I can write multiple posts ahead of time,
And set them to publish weeks later.
Fucking technology...
Ain't it crazy?
So my irreverent wit will still be heard around here.
Just less often.
I want to thank my readers, whom I adore,
For coming back here day after day,
Despite the fact that I never really post anything interesting.
I appreciate your loyalty,
And I hope you will stick with me through these next few months
As I get myself back on track and prioritize.
I love blogging.
I think about what I'm going to write about every night,
Lulling myself to sleep with thoughts of possible blog rants
For tomorrow.
So, until next time, which will probably be tonight,
Good day to you all.
Oh, hey, I started a new play this week, and I am two acts into it. Anyone interested in me publishing it here for you to read?
Good news:
I am now,
Pending the result of a drug screen tomorrow,
Gainfully employed.
This is good news as it allows me to actually earn money,
Instead of mooching off of family and friends.
Bad news, it's going to seriously cut into my blogging time.
So I will most likely be posting less often.
Maybe 4 times a week.
But this job is one where I have to drive around a lot,
So it will enable me to think about blogging while working.
Although, this being a new job,
I should probably concentrate on doing good work in the short term,
As opposed to writing blog posts in traffic.
So consequentially, there will be more posts like this,
Off the cuff, no actual composition,
Free flowing illogical rants.
Long time readers will be used to this method.
Newer readers are going to have to get used to it,
Or just stop coming here.
I'm going to spend the next few days writing like a madman.
Thanks to Blogger's new format,
I can write multiple posts ahead of time,
And set them to publish weeks later.
Fucking technology...
Ain't it crazy?
So my irreverent wit will still be heard around here.
Just less often.
I want to thank my readers, whom I adore,
For coming back here day after day,
Despite the fact that I never really post anything interesting.
I appreciate your loyalty,
And I hope you will stick with me through these next few months
As I get myself back on track and prioritize.
I love blogging.
I think about what I'm going to write about every night,
Lulling myself to sleep with thoughts of possible blog rants
For tomorrow.
So, until next time, which will probably be tonight,
Good day to you all.
Oh, hey, I started a new play this week, and I am two acts into it. Anyone interested in me publishing it here for you to read?
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Damn you, Dr. House!
Is common courtesy dead? Has the teat that supplies the milk of human kindness been suckled dry by the chapped lips of human misery (How's that for a metaphor?!?)? Is there no chivalry left in America? Can I write this whole post in generalized rhetorical questions?
Probably not. In all cases.
To my point, though, as I know you have been wondering whether there is one: Are there any friendly people left on this planet?
To wit: Today, Floyd and I were on our morning constitutional, and no less than five people were greeted with a hearty "Hello! How are you today?" by me, the man with the perpetual sunny disposition (HA!). And on no less than five occasions, we were rudely and summarily, rebuffed. Nothing. Not a courteous "Wonderful! And you?", or even a discourteous nod in my general direction. Silence. No response at all. Head down, they kept on walking.
What the hell has happened in America? Is it to the point where we have all been stupified by a sudden onset of unabashed misanthropy, or are we so deluded by our own crass feelings of smug superiority that a simple salutation is considered far too much effort to exert? Have we no souls left?
Don't get me wrong. I am not trying to imply that I am the embodiment of kindness. Anyone who has spent more than 5 minutes with me is privy to the knowledge that I am most certainly not. But I am not so devoid of manners that I am unable to at least smile politely and feign benevolence and offer a kind word back to this person who is merely trying to be friendly. Even if it is wholly disingenuous, I still make the attempt.
I guess I'm an anomaly. I am the kind of person who still holds doors open for people. Certainly for women, but also for men. Although I have often debated internally whether I am obligated to do so for the man. But I do. Because that is how I was raised. I was brought up to believe that being kind and courteous is not an option, it is a requirement. Even if it is your mortal enemy, perhaps the one who stole your girlfriend in the eighth grade, and then proceeded to try and steal each successive girlfriend from thereon in (I'm looking at you, Art Murphy), you must still be kind to them.
I suppose it can be seen by some as a character flaw. A fatal defect in my DNA. It makes me completely useless when it comes to confrontation, that's for sure. I am a professional doormat, who allows himself to be walked over at the slightest hint of a "situation". But that's just my nature. I am generally affable and easy to get along with. And I must accept that with that comes the ability to be taken advantage of and very easily dismissed.
But I guess trying to transfer my morals and standards onto others is a losing proposition. "That dog just won't hunt," is what someone might say (although that someone is nobody that I would ever associate with).
I am simply amazed at the total lack of friendliness being exhibited in this small town. Hamlets like mine are supposed to be the kind of place where you walk down the street and everyone is genial with everyone else. But instead, everyone here seems to be pissed off at nothing in particular. Just pissed off. That they are stuck here, probably. That they never fulfilled their dreams of casting off the yoke of country living, and becoming big city people. Their dreams of getting out of this one horse town. (To be truthful, we don't even have a horse. There is one, but it's a giant toy rocking horse that sits in the center of the VFW parking lot. I suppose one Shetland pony town is a more accurate description. Or perhaps one llama town.) They dream of city living where, paradoxically, general and wanton disdain for anyone and everyone else is not only accepted, it's de'regur!
I'm guess just disappointed with how this cozy, quaint, amiable, lovely little town has slid so far downhill, that it is no longer recognizable to someone who has lived here for so long. All I wanted was someone to simply acknowledge my greeting. Is that so much to ask? I mean, honestly?
Hello?
Dear Lord, not you guys too.
Probably not. In all cases.
To my point, though, as I know you have been wondering whether there is one: Are there any friendly people left on this planet?
To wit: Today, Floyd and I were on our morning constitutional, and no less than five people were greeted with a hearty "Hello! How are you today?" by me, the man with the perpetual sunny disposition (HA!). And on no less than five occasions, we were rudely and summarily, rebuffed. Nothing. Not a courteous "Wonderful! And you?", or even a discourteous nod in my general direction. Silence. No response at all. Head down, they kept on walking.
What the hell has happened in America? Is it to the point where we have all been stupified by a sudden onset of unabashed misanthropy, or are we so deluded by our own crass feelings of smug superiority that a simple salutation is considered far too much effort to exert? Have we no souls left?
Don't get me wrong. I am not trying to imply that I am the embodiment of kindness. Anyone who has spent more than 5 minutes with me is privy to the knowledge that I am most certainly not. But I am not so devoid of manners that I am unable to at least smile politely and feign benevolence and offer a kind word back to this person who is merely trying to be friendly. Even if it is wholly disingenuous, I still make the attempt.
I guess I'm an anomaly. I am the kind of person who still holds doors open for people. Certainly for women, but also for men. Although I have often debated internally whether I am obligated to do so for the man. But I do. Because that is how I was raised. I was brought up to believe that being kind and courteous is not an option, it is a requirement. Even if it is your mortal enemy, perhaps the one who stole your girlfriend in the eighth grade, and then proceeded to try and steal each successive girlfriend from thereon in (I'm looking at you, Art Murphy), you must still be kind to them.
I suppose it can be seen by some as a character flaw. A fatal defect in my DNA. It makes me completely useless when it comes to confrontation, that's for sure. I am a professional doormat, who allows himself to be walked over at the slightest hint of a "situation". But that's just my nature. I am generally affable and easy to get along with. And I must accept that with that comes the ability to be taken advantage of and very easily dismissed.
But I guess trying to transfer my morals and standards onto others is a losing proposition. "That dog just won't hunt," is what someone might say (although that someone is nobody that I would ever associate with).
I am simply amazed at the total lack of friendliness being exhibited in this small town. Hamlets like mine are supposed to be the kind of place where you walk down the street and everyone is genial with everyone else. But instead, everyone here seems to be pissed off at nothing in particular. Just pissed off. That they are stuck here, probably. That they never fulfilled their dreams of casting off the yoke of country living, and becoming big city people. Their dreams of getting out of this one horse town. (To be truthful, we don't even have a horse. There is one, but it's a giant toy rocking horse that sits in the center of the VFW parking lot. I suppose one Shetland pony town is a more accurate description. Or perhaps one llama town.) They dream of city living where, paradoxically, general and wanton disdain for anyone and everyone else is not only accepted, it's de'regur!
I'm guess just disappointed with how this cozy, quaint, amiable, lovely little town has slid so far downhill, that it is no longer recognizable to someone who has lived here for so long. All I wanted was someone to simply acknowledge my greeting. Is that so much to ask? I mean, honestly?
Hello?
Dear Lord, not you guys too.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Now that's just a-goddamn-dorable!
Hiya all! "Celebrity" crush time again. And this week, it is someone so cute, so, as the title suggests, a-goddamn-dorable, I just couldn't ignore them any longer. I have known this person for most of my life. It's not a real celebrity, but in my own little delusion-based reality, they are the most famous person in the world. Who is it? Well, it's the person I love more than anyone else in existence!
Fucking me, of course! I found these pictures this weekend, I just had to post them. I especially like the one with the Hawaiian shirt. Yeah, I was definitely a big fat party animal at the tender age of 8.
Just to give you an idea for you moms, this is how quickly it can turn. You saw me at 8, here is 20 years later:
Yes, so eventually my ears did stop growing long enough for my body to catch up, as you can see. If you look very carefully, you will notice that they are the same size at 8 as they are today. Can you imagine having those dinner plates on the side of your head? But this is the toll years of drug abuse can take. Not the least of which is choosing that color yellow to paint your spare room. Yuck!
But I still love you, childhood version of me. And if I could, I'd go back and make make a few changes to make your life a little easier. Like instilling in you a sense what colors look good where. And maybe I would advise you to stay away from the drugs, you know, if I got around to it.
Fucking me, of course! I found these pictures this weekend, I just had to post them. I especially like the one with the Hawaiian shirt. Yeah, I was definitely a big fat party animal at the tender age of 8.
Just to give you an idea for you moms, this is how quickly it can turn. You saw me at 8, here is 20 years later:
Yes, so eventually my ears did stop growing long enough for my body to catch up, as you can see. If you look very carefully, you will notice that they are the same size at 8 as they are today. Can you imagine having those dinner plates on the side of your head? But this is the toll years of drug abuse can take. Not the least of which is choosing that color yellow to paint your spare room. Yuck!
But I still love you, childhood version of me. And if I could, I'd go back and make make a few changes to make your life a little easier. Like instilling in you a sense what colors look good where. And maybe I would advise you to stay away from the drugs, you know, if I got around to it.
If you love something, set it free... Just don't be surprised when it comes back with herpes.
Deplorable.
Despicable.
Fascinating.
Hilarious.
Perverted.
Brilliant.
Subversive.
Thought provoking.
These are just a few of the words I would use to describe the book I just read. Haunted By Chuck Palahniuk. Anyone not familiar with him is certainly familiar with his work. He is the author of the highly acclaimed novel turned blockbuster film, Fight Club. Anyone who read it or saw it will know immediately that Palahniuk makes you think about many things over the course of his stories. He also has ways of making the mundane seem obscene. He is a master of it, in fact.
Imagine being given the opportunity to create your master work. The freedom from the obligations of your everyday life. Away from the madness inducing routine of your everyday life, and were just allowed to work. It's a writer's dream. And Palahniuk turns it into their nightmare.
WRITERS' RETREAT:
ABANDON YOUR LIFE FOR THREE MONTHS
Just disappear.
Leave behind everything that keeps you from creating your masterpiece.
Your job and family and home,
all those obligations and distractions-
Put them on hold FOR THREE MONTHS.
Live with like-minded people in a
setting that supports total immersion in
your work. Food and lodging included free
for those who qualify. Gamble a small
fraction of your life on the chance to
create a new future as a professional
poet, novelist, screenwriter.
Before it's too late, live the life you
dream about. Spaces very limited.
That is the entire premise of the novel. Doesn't it sound fun? I know if I saw that ad, I would be first in line. And I would also be the first to flip out while I was there. The story is at some times disgusting, at others touching, at still others absolutely hilarious.
There is very little about this book that I disliked. If you do happen to read it, I would suggest skipping the first story about Saint Gut-Free. Oh, I should mention this: The book is broken up into 23 short stories told by the attendees of the retreat, about their own lives, only they glamorize themselves and embellish the story ever so slightly, just like you would if you were writing the story of your life. The small details may change, but the overarching narrative remains the same.
Back to Saint Gut-Free, it is the first of the short stories after the introduction to all of the characters. DO NOT READ IT! I implore you. It has almost no narrative value, and is, I believe, only meant to shock the reader. If you are a sexual pervert, and enjoy reading about the many ways teenage boys "get off", then by all means, read it. But it serves no purpose to the novel itself. Trust me. You might miss out on one joke, that appears 3/4 of the way into the story, and it is forgotten as soon as you read it. And honestly, the joke isn't even that funny. Not funny enough to have to read that passage at least.
Other than that, I totally recommend this book. It's 400 or so pages, and I blew through it in a weekend, and I am not one who usually reads like that. I usually pace myself. But I would find the book calling me to pick it up, enticing me to read on about Comrade Snarky (who is my favorite character and provides for the most uncomfortable breakfast scene in recorded history), and The Duke of Vandals, and Lady Baglady. And Mrs. Clark, who is the emotional epicenter of the novel. Her story plays out over three separate short stories, and holds the cathartic release the whole novel works towards. And the final story is one that will stick in your mind for days and days, and it won't let got until you accept the delicious irony of it.
Just a good summertime read overall, it's a good beach book, provided you can keep from discussing it in front of the kids. It's not really their fare. The whole thing will leave you with as many questions as it answers. It leaves many stories unfinished, and you are meant to infer how it actually ended. But it isn't like other books that have tried to do that. It doesn't leave you unsatisfied. If anything, I think it was very well played by Palahniuk. After reading these stories, our mind becomes so numb to the ideas put forth by them, it makes what we imagine to be the end of a story so much more sick and twisted than he ever could have written. Well, that's probably not true, but you know what I mean.
Palahniuk is maybe the finest writer of our generation, in my opinion. I would compare him to Jack Kerouac, but I am far too big a fan of Jack to do that him. Let's just say, he's Kerouacian in his style. Fast paced, layers upon layers of plot, and wonderfully enjoyable in its subversiveness.
I will leave you with the question old Mr. Whittier asks us all to consider:
If death meant just leaving the stage long enough to change costume and come back as a new character... Would you slow down? Or speed up?
Well?
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