I turned thirty yesterday and I'm still waiting for it to hit me. After I lost my virginity the reality of the situation didn't hit home for days. In fact, It took about four days. I walked into a Kroger's to do what it is that people do in such places, paused to consider what I needed, and thought "what the fuck?! I've had sex?" I sincerely thought I'd never get beyond first or second base in my entire life. It wasn't something that I felt sad about, I just thought it was going to happen that way. Maybe, I thought, I'll get to see a girl with no shirt on in real life. And I did. And it was as fun as I thought it would be.
In a few days, I fully anticipate that mid-function, and it will be a mundane function, I'll stop, and have some dramatic meltdown about my age. I may pause to wonder what I've done in life that's amounted to anything, other than to marry one of most beautiful women on the planet, and to have some incredible friends. I'll think about that show on the Discovery channel called Life After People . It'll remind me how temporary all of our accomplishments are anyways, which is both reassuring in that I haven't created a lot of things that the world would miss, but also disappointing since I haven't created a lot of things that the world would miss. I'll consider this stuff, get a drink of water, and buy some beer at the store. I'll consider buying the expensive stuff, but since I'm an adult now, economic frugality will kick in, and I'll opt for some Amber Bock , or Michelob's Dunkel Weisse , the poor man's Unibroue .
As it stands, I haven't had any such calamity of spirit. In fact, my actual birthday was excellent. I read Ysrael a short story in 'Drown' by
Junot Diaz , while I waited for Elizabeth to wake up. She had four presents waiting for me and offered me two before breakfast. Now I'm better dressed, which is as good for her as it is for me. We had breakfast at Toast on Market Street. As long as you can get a table in under fifteen minutes, it's always a good experience. We got our table in under two minutes.
We came home and she gave me my other two presents. One of them was a brewing kit, so now we can stay both frugal, and fancy. Apparently, it's not difficult to brew beer, you just have to be patient. I figure it's a good thing to know how to do anyways. If the apocalypse happens, I really need a skill that's useful, and brewing beer may be that skill, because lord knows that I can neither fly an ultra-lite , or throw a bladed boomerang . Ostensibly the water would be rank, and contaminated, choked on the cinders from the nuclear fallout, so beer may be the only thing that people can safely drink. I'm assuming that the brewing process will filter out any unwanted radiation and I'm fairly sure it will. I mean, duh.
Keeping with the beer theme, we drove out to the world's greatest Liquor Barn. I mean, I can only think of a few things that may make it more awesome , and that would involve an indoor pool, a hot tub, pictures of boobs everywhere, and Karp playing on repeat all day. This place has forty beers on tap! Good ones too. We bought a growler of Gulden Draak beer and a six pack of the best pumpkin beer on Earth. We came home, my lovely wife drove to work, and I played my videogame with one of my best pals , while drinking my favorite beer , and listening to music. All I need now is a hammock and some alone time with my wife, maybe a Margarita with an umbrella in it.
Not a bad day. I spent it surrounded by friends and family. A lot of people called me to remind me that I am loved. I want to remember this day every time I get yelled at by someone at work , every time my boss is offering me something inane as something profound, any time I don't get the promotion, or when we don't get to play whatever show it is that we're wanting to play. And my long and wonderful weekend has only started. I am loved!
Friday, September 25, 2009
Monday, September 14, 2009
What Do You Pour Out For A Dead 40oz.?
I just found out Patrick Swayze died at the age of 57. I can now say with some certainty that there is not a higher being, at least not one capable of intervening whatsoever in human affairs. No, this God, or god, or gods, or Cthulu or what have you, probably hates fun times of all sorts. Dear God, have you ever seen a little movie called Roadhouse ? It's about THE BEST DAMNED BOUNCER ever! He was so awesome at bouncering, that people all over the bouncer community talked about him at bouncer conferences. And now he's dead of cancer and not something Monster Truck related, which is actually how Patrick Swayze should have died.
My earliest memories of Patrick Swayze were heinous. Fucking heinous to be specific. My mom and her pals watched Dirty Dancing with a rampant housewife fervor, like watching a loose cannon outlaw teach a stuck up twit how to dance would somehow stop Communism, or get a Republican out of office, or hell, maybe just put some food on the table that was not Kool-Aid, Hot Dogs, or Bologna. It didn't do any of those things though, it just made one eight year old boy very sad, and irritable. One thing it did though, was reinforce my hatred for dancing that has only been partially altered by the invention of Dance, Dance, Revolution , but which is now being challenged again by Dancing With The Stars , which I'm fairly certain was designed to make me want to die.
So long Patrick Swayze. Tomorrow at red dawn, I will dance dirty to the roadhouse, and surf out to point break. I will pour out a forty for you and then pour out Cristal for that forty. I will consider ripping someone's throat out at work tomorrow, but unlike your wild card portrayal of Dalton , I will not rip out someone's throat in front of my wife, because that would be a buzzkill, and would probably create an anti-sexfield . I hate anti-sexfields.
My earliest memories of Patrick Swayze were heinous. Fucking heinous to be specific. My mom and her pals watched Dirty Dancing with a rampant housewife fervor, like watching a loose cannon outlaw teach a stuck up twit how to dance would somehow stop Communism, or get a Republican out of office, or hell, maybe just put some food on the table that was not Kool-Aid, Hot Dogs, or Bologna. It didn't do any of those things though, it just made one eight year old boy very sad, and irritable. One thing it did though, was reinforce my hatred for dancing that has only been partially altered by the invention of Dance, Dance, Revolution , but which is now being challenged again by Dancing With The Stars , which I'm fairly certain was designed to make me want to die.
So long Patrick Swayze. Tomorrow at red dawn, I will dance dirty to the roadhouse, and surf out to point break. I will pour out a forty for you and then pour out Cristal for that forty. I will consider ripping someone's throat out at work tomorrow, but unlike your wild card portrayal of Dalton , I will not rip out someone's throat in front of my wife, because that would be a buzzkill, and would probably create an anti-sexfield . I hate anti-sexfields.
Friday, September 11, 2009
My Savage Ulcer
On an almost annual basis, I apply for a different position within my company. I do this in an effort to lessen my stress load. Ideally, I'd like to not reach the ripe age of 46, fall over while cutting the grass one day, with a heat stroke, and a mild heart attack. By then, I wager that I'll have ulcers the size of footballs in my gut, I'll curse regularly, and I'll hate every child that walks across my lawn. I'll probably drink my liver into a tiny, shrivelled, hate filled sac of bile, that filters nothing but violence, and piss into my blood stream. I'll wear a fisherman's hat, but I'll hate myself for wearing it. I'll swear at passing cars and hate loud sounds. By then, I'll have sold my instruments in a fit of rage at my lack of accomplishment. I may have children by then and I'll put on a good face for them, but since I'm bottling my anger, it'll only increase the size of my ulcers. The stately age of 46 is not looking so bright.
To thwart my impending doom, I try to find work that would hopefully lower the size of my future ulcer. Maybe something where idiots don't get idiot all over my face, trying to understand simple concepts. Maybe a position where people don't ask the same question five times expecting a different answer. Hell, I'd just settle for a job where people didn't think it was acceptable to ask a question, wait five seconds, and immediately proceed to talk over me. Here, dear customer, is a jug of SHUT THE FUCK UP juice. Drink deep.
I annually apply and annually get declined. This year, I applied for yet another lateral transition within the company. I interviewed the fuck out of this position. I had quick and effective answers for every question asked of me. I really thought this through. I left them laughing, which I always take as a positive sign. Clearly it was not effective enough. Instead of hiring me, they are in all likelyhood going to hire my mouth-breathing neighbor, who has to have every directive repeated to her at least fifteen times before finally feeling brave enough to take her own initiative. The primary difference in this situation has nothing to do with any statistical difference between myself and anyone else, as the facts can easily prove themselves. No, as I understand it, the difference is considerably more superficial, more along the lines of what hangs between my legs, a term I use loosely I may add, and how I use this to piss upright.
It infuriates me to feel this way, that my gender has an influence in creating bias in others. It's reasonable to believe that people share in this bias or that some people hate white people or males or blondes or whatever. I realize that prejudice knows no bounds. I also realize how absurd it sounds for a white male to bemoan his position in life. I'm not sure where I missed the boat on privilege, at least in using that privilege to improve my lot in life. I have an awful, anger-inducing, rage powering job, that may eventually cause me to self-combust. Clearly I am the constant in each situation, but when I present myself as amiable, confident, and knowledgable, especially when I prove these conceits by showing my dedication to education, and by progressively handling more responsibility with less recognization yet still fail to produce any positive rewards from this, well, I'm at a loss for words.
So tonight my friends, I will drink. I'll toast a future liver that is fully functional, and capable of filtering the most putrid of rum into pure water. I'll toast to my ulcers and wish them an early, but painless demise. Mostly I'll be commiserating my many opportunities lost. I imagine that as my thirtieth birthday grows nearer, I may find plenty of opportunities to revisit this trend with more regularity. I'll toast to looking up, not down.
To thwart my impending doom, I try to find work that would hopefully lower the size of my future ulcer. Maybe something where idiots don't get idiot all over my face, trying to understand simple concepts. Maybe a position where people don't ask the same question five times expecting a different answer. Hell, I'd just settle for a job where people didn't think it was acceptable to ask a question, wait five seconds, and immediately proceed to talk over me. Here, dear customer, is a jug of SHUT THE FUCK UP juice. Drink deep.
I annually apply and annually get declined. This year, I applied for yet another lateral transition within the company. I interviewed the fuck out of this position. I had quick and effective answers for every question asked of me. I really thought this through. I left them laughing, which I always take as a positive sign. Clearly it was not effective enough. Instead of hiring me, they are in all likelyhood going to hire my mouth-breathing neighbor, who has to have every directive repeated to her at least fifteen times before finally feeling brave enough to take her own initiative. The primary difference in this situation has nothing to do with any statistical difference between myself and anyone else, as the facts can easily prove themselves. No, as I understand it, the difference is considerably more superficial, more along the lines of what hangs between my legs, a term I use loosely I may add, and how I use this to piss upright.
It infuriates me to feel this way, that my gender has an influence in creating bias in others. It's reasonable to believe that people share in this bias or that some people hate white people or males or blondes or whatever. I realize that prejudice knows no bounds. I also realize how absurd it sounds for a white male to bemoan his position in life. I'm not sure where I missed the boat on privilege, at least in using that privilege to improve my lot in life. I have an awful, anger-inducing, rage powering job, that may eventually cause me to self-combust. Clearly I am the constant in each situation, but when I present myself as amiable, confident, and knowledgable, especially when I prove these conceits by showing my dedication to education, and by progressively handling more responsibility with less recognization yet still fail to produce any positive rewards from this, well, I'm at a loss for words.
So tonight my friends, I will drink. I'll toast a future liver that is fully functional, and capable of filtering the most putrid of rum into pure water. I'll toast to my ulcers and wish them an early, but painless demise. Mostly I'll be commiserating my many opportunities lost. I imagine that as my thirtieth birthday grows nearer, I may find plenty of opportunities to revisit this trend with more regularity. I'll toast to looking up, not down.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Girl Pants, Bums, and Aqualung.
Yesterday was the first weekday on my vacation and a pretty satisfying day at that. Aside from my nose draining into my throat, all was well in the world. I got a haircut and beard trim, so I no longer look like I escaped from a hobo camp. I stopped at the Great Escape, which is always a pleasant experience for me. I drove to Elizabeth's work at 1pm, picked her up for lunch, and drove to Q-Doba, which I've warmed up to. We sat in the window while we ate. A bum walked by, as bums are known to do. As he walked by the window, he looked directly at two emo/hipster type guys, both wearing girl pants, looked at us, made effeminate hand gestures, and laughed at both as they passed.
Allow me to reiterate. A homeless man, a deaf homeless man as it were, still finds it in his heart to clown two hipsters. It may have been one of the most satisfying things I've experienced in quite some time. I laughed out loud.
And this is why I love living in the Weirdo Part of town. I am blessed with oddity on a daily basis. One of my favorite accounts came about six months ago, at least as my recollection serves. Elizabeth and I were walking home from something. I don't recall what. We were near our house when we heard a flute in the distance. This kid was sitting on his porch, looking really sullen, and angst ridden, and playing a flute. I had this magnificent vision that he was on the porch after an argument with his parents. In my head, it went like this:
Mom: Blah, Blah... you're grounded.
Boy: I hate you mom!
Then he storms outside and plays Aqualung and thinks about running away. I love the Highlands.
Allow me to reiterate. A homeless man, a deaf homeless man as it were, still finds it in his heart to clown two hipsters. It may have been one of the most satisfying things I've experienced in quite some time. I laughed out loud.
And this is why I love living in the Weirdo Part of town. I am blessed with oddity on a daily basis. One of my favorite accounts came about six months ago, at least as my recollection serves. Elizabeth and I were walking home from something. I don't recall what. We were near our house when we heard a flute in the distance. This kid was sitting on his porch, looking really sullen, and angst ridden, and playing a flute. I had this magnificent vision that he was on the porch after an argument with his parents. In my head, it went like this:
Mom: Blah, Blah... you're grounded.
Boy: I hate you mom!
Then he storms outside and plays Aqualung and thinks about running away. I love the Highlands.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Brain Pudding
I woke up this morning at 7am, so I could do this on a bicycle. I made a litany of mistakes. I did not take water, thinking their would be ample opportunity for that on the trail. I did not wear any sunscreen. Sweat poured into my eyes, because I had no headgear. This was only aggravated by the sunburn I developed about half-way through; this trail has almost no shade for the entirety of the trip. Never let it be said that I'm a smart man.
I didn't arrive home until about 12:30pm. There was a wealth of errands that needed running today and I knew if I didn't ask to leave immediately, I would fall asleep for an indeterminate amount of time. So, after a shower, the wife and I headed to the mall, one of my least favorite places in earth. Four or so hours later, I arrived home.
My second wind had come. I had a little beer and proceeded to watch Southland Tales , while reading Final Crisis . I think I gave my brain scoliosis. Both the movie and the comic are batshit insane. Typifying either as esoteric does an injustice to the word. I'm not sure what Southland Tales was about. I didn't hate it, but I also didn't take much from it. Richard Kelly directed the movie and I can only imagine that it was a prank on Hollywood. Not only was the plot abstract and surreal, but it seemed to imply that efforts at renewable energy were a negative thing. This confuses and saddens me. I can only hope that Richard Kelly got it out of his system as The Box looks really interesting.
It's interesting to compare Southland Tales with Final Crisis, as the latter makes the former seem like Die Hard by comparison. Grant Morrison wrote it, which, for anyone that remains remotely familiar with comics should know, means that it made the concept of "insane" watered down. In a lot of ways Morrison is the real deal. When he wrote The Invisibles he actually tried to convince the public to have a 'wankathon', wherein everyone would masturbate at the same time everywhere on Earth as part of some sexual magic spell. I'm serious. DC was not particularly pleased with his use of the letters section.
That said, Final Crisis is some sort of surreal tribute to Jack Kirby's Fourth World , which I'm mostly unfamiliar with. I've read various things where Morrison explained that he wanted to create some sort of hyperactive comic, something that was so far removed from form and convention that it would be impossible to relate as a movie, and I'm fairly certain that he succeeded. Superman plugs a hole in the universe to stop Mandrakk, a vampiric Monitor (don't ask), from doing something rotten. I'm not sure what. And that's just part of it. If that doesn't send up giant WTF flags, I'm not sure what will.
And now my brain is off. I kind of just want to watch Full House or something like that, but I'm afraid that my perception, at least for the day, is tainted by hyper-fiction, beer, and the exhaustion of a 27.5 mile bike ride. At least I supposedly burned off some calories. That certainly doesn't hurt anything.
Incidentally, I thank my wife for showing me how html code works. Not only is she nicer looking than me, but she is smarter than I am, which doesn't say much. I am a lucky man.
I didn't arrive home until about 12:30pm. There was a wealth of errands that needed running today and I knew if I didn't ask to leave immediately, I would fall asleep for an indeterminate amount of time. So, after a shower, the wife and I headed to the mall, one of my least favorite places in earth. Four or so hours later, I arrived home.
My second wind had come. I had a little beer and proceeded to watch Southland Tales , while reading Final Crisis . I think I gave my brain scoliosis. Both the movie and the comic are batshit insane. Typifying either as esoteric does an injustice to the word. I'm not sure what Southland Tales was about. I didn't hate it, but I also didn't take much from it. Richard Kelly directed the movie and I can only imagine that it was a prank on Hollywood. Not only was the plot abstract and surreal, but it seemed to imply that efforts at renewable energy were a negative thing. This confuses and saddens me. I can only hope that Richard Kelly got it out of his system as The Box looks really interesting.
It's interesting to compare Southland Tales with Final Crisis, as the latter makes the former seem like Die Hard by comparison. Grant Morrison wrote it, which, for anyone that remains remotely familiar with comics should know, means that it made the concept of "insane" watered down. In a lot of ways Morrison is the real deal. When he wrote The Invisibles he actually tried to convince the public to have a 'wankathon', wherein everyone would masturbate at the same time everywhere on Earth as part of some sexual magic spell. I'm serious. DC was not particularly pleased with his use of the letters section.
That said, Final Crisis is some sort of surreal tribute to Jack Kirby's Fourth World , which I'm mostly unfamiliar with. I've read various things where Morrison explained that he wanted to create some sort of hyperactive comic, something that was so far removed from form and convention that it would be impossible to relate as a movie, and I'm fairly certain that he succeeded. Superman plugs a hole in the universe to stop Mandrakk, a vampiric Monitor (don't ask), from doing something rotten. I'm not sure what. And that's just part of it. If that doesn't send up giant WTF flags, I'm not sure what will.
And now my brain is off. I kind of just want to watch Full House or something like that, but I'm afraid that my perception, at least for the day, is tainted by hyper-fiction, beer, and the exhaustion of a 27.5 mile bike ride. At least I supposedly burned off some calories. That certainly doesn't hurt anything.
Incidentally, I thank my wife for showing me how html code works. Not only is she nicer looking than me, but she is smarter than I am, which doesn't say much. I am a lucky man.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
You Win Again Skynet/An Ode to Shawn Doss
So I found an article on how having a beer gut is apparently trendy in Brooklyn right now. I found it here: http://www.nytimes.com/2009/08/13/fashion/13POTBELLY.html?_r=3&scp=1&sq=hip%20to%20be%20round&st=cse?no_interstitial
But this link looks like shit. And that's a serious indictment. I'd like to put something clever in the link field and then you click on something that says "Hell Yeah!" or something sassy like that, because I want to sound sassy. But the interweb and by extension, computers hate me. They do. Don't think that they don't, because I know that someone reading this is. I should not have to spend two hours trying to figure out how to be e-clever, but apparently blogger thinks I should. So I suppose from here forward, I get to post cumbersome links, that are 100% sassy free. This causes much sadness in my world. I guess that ought to tell you where my head is.
In regards to this article though, I'm pretty excited. I've finally made it. I'm going to poor beer into ice cream and eat it for lunch. I'm going to melt my weight set down into an iron lung, because breathing is so 2008. I'm going to model myself after Shawn Doss, a kid I went to school with. Shawn exclusively wore sweat clothes. He was the Don of the Magic the Gathering set. He bullied his grandmother (Me-Maw) into giving up her SSI money so he could afford the best cards. I mean, that Black Lotus isn't going to buy itself now is it?
I have it on good authority that Shawn had a tape that only had 'Highway to the Dangerzone' on it, over and over again. Apparently his number one hobby aside from terrorizing his grandmother out of her money was to pound down bowls of chili and rock Kenny Loggins. For Shawn, consuming chili in mass quantity was the highway to the dangerzone. This has the unfortunate effect of making us all consider what exactly the dangerzone itself is. I'd rather not speculate myself.
So here's to Shawn Doss. The coolest guy in Brooklyn right now. Suck on that Sonic Youth.
But this link looks like shit. And that's a serious indictment. I'd like to put something clever in the link field and then you click on something that says "Hell Yeah!" or something sassy like that, because I want to sound sassy. But the interweb and by extension, computers hate me. They do. Don't think that they don't, because I know that someone reading this is. I should not have to spend two hours trying to figure out how to be e-clever, but apparently blogger thinks I should. So I suppose from here forward, I get to post cumbersome links, that are 100% sassy free. This causes much sadness in my world. I guess that ought to tell you where my head is.
In regards to this article though, I'm pretty excited. I've finally made it. I'm going to poor beer into ice cream and eat it for lunch. I'm going to melt my weight set down into an iron lung, because breathing is so 2008. I'm going to model myself after Shawn Doss, a kid I went to school with. Shawn exclusively wore sweat clothes. He was the Don of the Magic the Gathering set. He bullied his grandmother (Me-Maw) into giving up her SSI money so he could afford the best cards. I mean, that Black Lotus isn't going to buy itself now is it?
I have it on good authority that Shawn had a tape that only had 'Highway to the Dangerzone' on it, over and over again. Apparently his number one hobby aside from terrorizing his grandmother out of her money was to pound down bowls of chili and rock Kenny Loggins. For Shawn, consuming chili in mass quantity was the highway to the dangerzone. This has the unfortunate effect of making us all consider what exactly the dangerzone itself is. I'd rather not speculate myself.
So here's to Shawn Doss. The coolest guy in Brooklyn right now. Suck on that Sonic Youth.
Friday, August 14, 2009
RadioShaq
Dear Shaquille O'Neal
Radioshack will soon change its name to 'The Shack'. I can't be certain why they think this is a good idea, unless they just want to bewilder their patrons. But you know, 'Radio' isn't a cool buzz word or anything, so you know, make it more extreme. What will they think of next?
I see this as an opportunity for you to become a spokesperson. I feel like the ads write themselves. The shot opens with you (Shaq) with your back to the camera, perusing a number of fine electronics items sold at the Shack. You are wearing your basketball Jersey and you are sweaty. An employee walks over and hands you a towel. You turn to face the camera and say "after a long day of hooping, I just have to go to the Shack." Then you give a thumbs up to the camera as you buy an iPod and a 1/8' to 1/4 adapter for your home stereo.
Carpe Diem, Shaq. That next Fu-Schnickens record won't bankroll itself.
Your pal,
-syd
Radioshack will soon change its name to 'The Shack'. I can't be certain why they think this is a good idea, unless they just want to bewilder their patrons. But you know, 'Radio' isn't a cool buzz word or anything, so you know, make it more extreme. What will they think of next?
I see this as an opportunity for you to become a spokesperson. I feel like the ads write themselves. The shot opens with you (Shaq) with your back to the camera, perusing a number of fine electronics items sold at the Shack. You are wearing your basketball Jersey and you are sweaty. An employee walks over and hands you a towel. You turn to face the camera and say "after a long day of hooping, I just have to go to the Shack." Then you give a thumbs up to the camera as you buy an iPod and a 1/8' to 1/4 adapter for your home stereo.
Carpe Diem, Shaq. That next Fu-Schnickens record won't bankroll itself.
Your pal,
-syd
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