Thursday, August 31, 2006
(I tried to Google image search the perfect photo for this post, but the phrase "pirate taco rum" did not produce any images. If I saw some pirate taco rum on the shelf, I would definitely consider looking at it. A month ago some friends invented a mediocre drink called an "eskimo vagina." It is what happens when you want to make a margarita, but are forced to use powdered orange drink instead of margarita mix. It sort of tastes like Michael Dukakis' 1988 presidential campaign.)
Monday, August 28, 2006
I told an even stupider lie once, but I had the good excuse of being three. My brother was a baby, only a few months old. A window in our living room was cracked, and my dad asked me if I knew anything about it. I told my parents that my infant brother, who could barely make a fist, had thrown a hot dog at the window, cracking it. Oddly, I hadn't been responsible for the crack in the window, but I apparently wanted to see my new brother get punished. That must have been some hot dog.
Sunday, August 27, 2006
I realize it's become "incorrect" to quote Charles Bukowski since every creepy aspiring alcoholic hipster since 1973 worships his worst qualities as a human being and wildly overrates his worth, but since every pseudo-intellectual turbo-douche wildly underrates the man's work, I am going to take a chance on looking foolish (not such a stretch since I look foolish nearly every hour of my life) and offer this quote, which I believe to be the most poetically accurate summation of having a job (as opposed to doing some real work, which is something else entirely). Also, I can relate so much more to a middle-aged man who had a series of degrading jobs until he achieved success than I can to someone in the fucking Arctic Monkeys (t-shirts of that band seen on several middle-aged men notwithstanding). Here it is:
"How in the hell could a man enjoy being awakened at 6:30 a.m. by an alarm clock, leap out of bed, dress, force-feed, shit, piss, brush teeth and hair, and fight traffic to get to a place where essentially you made lots of money for somebody else and were asked to be grateful for the opportunity to do so?"
I'm in a slump, career-wise, and it seems to be poisoning most other aspects of my life. I'm a real selfish asshole sometimes, and hard to live with. However, I do have a tiny shred of optimism and a strong belief that life is mostly worth living. The sheer narcissism of being depressed by a continuous stream of shitty, boring, unfulfilling jobs (especially post-college degree) when it could be so much worse (victim of genocide, terminally ill, etc.) is embarrassing, but what can I do? I feel what I feel, and lately I don't feel good. Life is too often boring, embarrassing, and degrading. I don't want it to be that way, but I unfortunately need to eat, wear clothes, and have some shelter so I can continue being degraded until I catch a lucky break or die. Houses are too expensive, gas is too expensive, horrible people are running the world, and my cholesterol is probably too high. Larry the Cable Guy and Karl Rove are highly paid. My parents divorced three or four years ago, and that sucked and continues to suck in ever-mutating ways. People at my job tell me I'm too quiet, but they don't know that I'm not quiet at all. I just don't have anything to say to them. It's hot and the air conditioning in my car is broken. I accidentally watched five minutes of "Smooth Jazz TV" on Saturday night. I had to attend two hours of stress management training on Thursday, which consisted of one hour and thirty minutes of a random series of catch phrases, fifteen minutes of my coworkers nodding their approval and taking notes on each catch phrase, and fifteen minutes of wearing a blindfold and bouncing a ball. Who am I and what am I doing? Is this what it's going to be? Free will? I don't know what that is. Adults are a continual source of disappointment. They/I are/am stupid and boring and small and petty. Only small children have honest relationships with themselves, others, and the world. Thank god for music, books, and movies. And my wife. And my friends. And my family members who aren't annoying and perfunctory. And drawing, painting, photography, red meat, Mexican food, jokes, Fridays, Saturdays, Sundays, Labor Day, kicks in the crotch, death, gin, nipples, the expression "don't that beat all," every pizza topping (with the exception of broccoli), the cancelled TBS video program "Night Tracks," Ric "the Nature Boy" Flair, and that girl I really liked for years who didn't go out with me. Also, hotel bars, the word "cocksucker," and the Sparks song "This Town Ain't Big Enough For Both of Us." The rest of it, I can do without. I need a new job.
Here are the lyrics for "Free Will and Testament" by Robert Wyatt:
Given free will but within certain limitations,
I cannot will myself to limitless mutations,
I cannot know what I would be if I were not me,
I can only guess me.
So when I say that I know me, how can I know that?
What kind of spider understands arachnophobia?
I have my senses and my sense of having senses.
Do I guide them? Or they me?
The weight of dust exceeds the weight of settled objects.
What can it mean, such gravity without a centre?
Is there freedom to un-be?
Is there freedom from will-to-be?
Sheer momentum makes us act this way or that way.
We just invent or just assume a motivation.
I would disperse, be disconnected. Is this possible?
What are soldiers without a foe?
Be in the air, but not be air, be in the no air.
Be on the loose, neither compacted nor suspended.
Neither born nor left to die.
Had I been free, I could have chosen not to be me.
Demented forces push me madly round a treadmill.
Demented forces push me madly round a treadmill.
Let me off please, I am so tired.
Let me off please, I am so very tired.
Friday, August 25, 2006
I recently moved upstairs to a new cubicle. There is a bathroom upstairs of which I was previously unaware. It has a plant in it, and a flickering fluorescent light that is slowly dying. This light flickers intensely with a weird reddish-yellowish tint. I feel happy when I stand under the light. It makes washing your hands after urinating a freaky-deaky, psychedelic, totally in-your-face, tripped-out thrill ride. Unfortunately, I eventually have to leave the bathroom and confront head-on the series of awful choices I have made since age five that led to a goddamn fucking cubicle.
Friday, August 18, 2006
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
The lovely Spacebeer has pretty much covered our D.C. trip and airline woes in detail, but I do need to mention one thing she forgot about our shitty four-hour Holiday Inn stay in Bedford, Texas on the night of the one-engine plane. The bar in the hotel was called Scuba Joe's. According to their website, they have a pool table.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Time to D.I.E.
The worst rhyme I ever wrote is on display in a museum
While your finest ever jam belongs in a mausoleum
You know who raps better than you? Edie McClurg
Wack MC, you're going down like the Hindenburg
I should know because I was there
I tread where other homies wouldn't dare
For example, I survived the Titanic
I was spittin' rhymes while other fools panicked
At the last possible moment, I cold hopped into a lifeboat
With some rich hoes, my ghetto blaster, and my zebra-skin coat
I was blastin' mixtapes, straight up gettin' it crunk
The hoes fondled my zebra coat while that big-ass ship sunk
Popped the cork on some champagne and passed it all around
Had a house party on that lifeboat, it was weeks till we were found
I didn't give a fuck, though, that boat became my home
The hoes shaved my head because I cold forgot my comb
That's why rappers heads be shaved up and down the block
They're paying tribute to a survivor called Grandfatha Klock
I'm feared and respected, I'm willing and able
I rapped for Dorothy Parker at the Algonquin Round Table
When my crew rolls into town, the 5-0 always search us
I been saying fuck tha police since the Louisiana Purchase
P.I.E., my history's large and my future's even larger
After I shame you, you'll leave your house less than Henry Darger
If you try to out-rap me, you're doomed, you're gonna slip
Cause my rhymes are hella tighter than X-tra strength DentuGrip
Go bake some muffins, P.I.E.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Sunday, August 06, 2006
I'm back from D.C. I had a great trip, but a horrible tale of airplane and airline woe occurred on our final day (which turned into days). That story to come. Here are three highlights from my trip:
1) I ate great food.
2) I saw a homeless man's dick when his pants fell down.
3) I drank at a bar that has 1,000 beers.
Here is the August caption contest photo. You all know the rules by now.