greetings all, and welcome to the first correspondence from my wicked awesome tropical paradise.
i haven't really gotten a chance to collect my thoughts over the past few days, but i did manage to take some notes...
ahem...
"very nice here. ocean is spectacular. local food good; i'm a big fan of the seasonal fish... mostly wahoo. many lizards on the island, predominantly whiptails and iguanas. i am completely and totally surrounded by dutch women. they are cheerful, fit, and prefer to sunbathe/kayak naked. well done there, netherlands. perhaps i will find myself a fine wife here. honestly, they're everywhere. i am happy ."
oh, and did i mention i'm surrounded by dutch women? allow me to reiterate. there are dutch women everywhere. yahoo for me! both the men and women speak a bit of english, but they seem perfectly content with my generic response to their queries: "how 'bout NO, you crazy dutch bastard?!" yea, they love that one.
the water is, of course, friggen' spectacular, and i've logged almost an entire day's worth of bottom time in the past five days. simultaneously, i've managed to finish off three and a half litres of venezualan rum the local bottle shop sells for 15 guilder. the combination has left my mouth tasting vaguely of whiskey and plasma which, in my current inebriated state, lends a piquant, after-dinner flavor to the pan-seared tuna i had for dinner.
that's about the best i can do, sadly, since my brain, no doubt, is filling with tiny bubbles at the moment. not to worry, though, i'm content to languish in the idle vacuousness of island life.... you know, like gauguin...
...but without the syphilis of course...
sleep tight...
12.28.2005
GROETEN VAN PARADIJS, BITCHES!!
12.22.2005
COLD TURKEY
i just realized that i'll be leaving the country for a bit and i'll be without the blessings of a computer whilst i'm away. therefore i will be without internet porn for a while. can i do it? will i crack under the pressure? will i pay some willing ukrainian woman to service me when my fortitude collapses into a dark, swirling, abysmal vortex of self loathing and despair? the answers to these and all of your questions when i return to my native soil. in the meantime, have yourselves a merry little christmas.
and if you don't celebrate christmas, please, please, please just ignore the rest of us. some of us are just fucking crazy. thanks for being so understanding... especially you jews out there... i realize it's a bit awkward, what with this being the season where we celebrate the birth of our messiah whom you promptly killed, but don't sweat it, the whole 'destroy the temple and exile you from jerusalem' thing was pretty harsh, too. Barukh atah Adonai, Elohaynu, melekh ha-olam, borei p'ree ha-gafen if you know what i mean.
and seriously, if you really and truly believe there's a war on christmas waging in the streets (or in the 'chood'... G-D bless you if you get that), then maybe you might think about easing up a little bit. sit by a warm fire, sip some eggnog or hot, spicy brandy, turn on some gentle christmas music and have a go at the 'ol missus. might do you both a world of good.
mazel tov, bitches!
what's that i hear? why... it's the sound of my heart growing three sizes today! hooray for who-ville!
12.20.2005
PS
this should come as a shock to absolutely no one, but i am the motherfucking king of VH1's I Love the 80's trivia game. hoooo-ya!
...More...12.19.2005
THERE ARE NO PIRATES IN OUR FATHERS' HOUSES
my city is a specter tonight. the snow has frozen everything in place, but i seem to be keeping one blue spark alive for the ghosts lurking behind the dusty broken trees. what a generous winter that would cast such a dream on this place
old voices have left fingerprints on these memories. they echo and fade without the vitality of presence, and tonight i feel as if i'm the only one keeping them alive. should i choose to forget, they would dissolve and scatter into the dim
strange vibrations on this night at home. strange characters resurfacing with old thoughts, old photographs, and old letters. how easily i concede to the muddled drudgery of nostalgia, and how tragic the quiet ticks of age
in my absence, everything has changed. but while i am absent, memory is stone and unmoving. what a generous season that would cast such a dream on this place...
------
i couldn't really say why this visit home has come with so many surprises. if i absolutely had to, i might say that this will be the last time that i and everyone else will indulge in reliving the well-worn events of our shared past; that we have finally outgrown whatever it was we cherished so dearly. these halls resound with laughter, but it's beginning to sound like a childish, unfamiliar laughter, and sooner or later we'll walk away from it leaving a few soldiers behind, like me, to guard the path out of history, and to keep it locked away for good. why should so many old faces reappear to me now, i really couldn't say. maybe its the last gasp of a dying breed of Us.
why now, Ms Chairlift o' Reciprocity, do you resurface? why still, Ms NYC, do you and i stand on opposite sides of the glass? and why have i resigned to scream and kick and bite and scratch and whine and bitch until i get my way?
well, we all have our talents. and all children, but one, grow up.
this is all much too serious for tuesday, i'm afraid, but sleep well under warm blankets of snow tonight, lads. there are no pirates in our fathers' houses.
12.15.2005
HAPPY DECEMBERWEEN!!
oh billy... why is bill o'reilly so darn angry these days. does he really believe a war on christmas wages on in our streets like rebel violence? well, i'm going to put his picture next to this picture of a kitty.
12.13.2005
NOEL = LEON
my roommate has been listening to frank sinatra christmas songs for three hours now. i feel like i'm back in fucking retail. humbug!
...More...12.09.2005
THIS IS WHY I LOVE THE NYTIMES
it's a nice treat to wake up and munch warm, tasty oatmeal on a cool december morning and read this in today's new york times:
"Businesses like One for the Road, with its cooler of beer and phalanx of prostitutes, depend on plant workers as customers."
i really don't ask for much in this lifetime, but if i ever, ever, command a phalanx of prostitutes, i will die a happy man. the cooler of beer, of course, certainly helps. it's a good article, though, and something to think about.... when you're not thinking about a phalanx of nigerian prostitutes, that is.
12.08.2005
OH SHIT MAN...
oh shit nicole richie's single again. time to dust off my stalkin' pants. i.... mean.... um.... following trousers... yea... following trousers...
...More...12.07.2005
RETURN THY PANTS, SATAN
my pants were gone for 24 hours. i did not know where they had gone. i searched high and low calling, "ahoy, pants! ahoy!" but to no avail. i lost them sometime last night, though i can't say where. i suspect i had been drinking.
well...
i woke up drunk this morning, so i deduce that i had been drinking, though my memory will not confirm such activity. all i know for sure is that landing the drunk-sober-hungover trifecta during a 9am microbiology class is too jarring for even my hearty soul.
ahhhhh, the barbarism. long live the barbarian, i. what shall we do when life hands us barbarians? why, we make barbarry jam, that's what! ho ho!
ugh. am i proud of myself, you say? i say nay. nay i say! methinks things are getting just a touch out of control, and i may have to bring things back to neutral with a surprise visit to the outside. maybe a solo trip to big sur? a quick jog up mt. tamalpais perhaps?
it's funny how i was just saying to myself how normal i've become lately. well... all prayers are answered, i suppose, but only in the order in which they're received.
this should do for now:
Must be a sucker for it
Cry, Cry, but I don't need no mother
Just hold my hand while I come
To a decision on it
Sooner or later
Your legs give way, you hit the ground
Save it for later
Don't run away and let me down
Sooner or later
You hit the deck, you get found out
Save it for later
Don't run away and let me down
You let me down
Black air and seven seas and rotten through
But what can you do?
I don't know how I'm meant to act with you lot
Sometimes I don't try
I just now, now, now, now, now
Two dozen other stupid reasons
Why we should suffer for this
Don't bother trying to explain them
Just hold my hand while I come
To a decision on it...
11.30.2005
OK OK OK...
once again, i've been called to clarify my stance on something i've said in an old post. (goddamn, that's a lousy sentence... but forgive me, i just woke up. and i'm grouchy when i wake up.) Reckless, you do bring up a good point in your comments and, in fact, i know of at least two women who read this blog regularly that enjoy a sweet layer of frosting on their cake from time to time. so, yes, it does happen. my point was simply that there are two specific factors that i believe determine a woman's enjoyment of the oyster mask, and they are a) velocity and b) targeting.
a) there is a fine line between catching fluffy snowflakes on your tongue and getting hit in the face with a slushball at speed. a drizzle is fine, but hard enough to get under the eyelids seems like it might be uncomfortable.
b) mouth, chin, neck: 10pts; nose, cheeks, forehead: 5pts; hair, ears, eyeballs: no points.
any women in the audience feel like weighing in on these asinine comments? also, remember when i used to talk about not dirty stuff? sheesh...
11.29.2005
PS
ps. who is 'you know who?' i don't know who. do you know who? i don't.
there are far, far too many people who think dirty things about me. be specific.
wait...
replace 'dirty' with 'evil and sadistic'... yea, that's better.
THE RETURN OF THE LANGSTAR
in case you haven't been paying attention, Pete's back with international flava'. know him. love him.
...More...11.27.2005
DIE DIE SMART PORN!
well everything seems to be back to normal now, yes? i've returned from the dead to fuck with porn. and smart kids. and basically anything else i can think of now that my head has been screwed neatly back into place. besides, tonight's feature is pure shock value anyway; straight pulp nastiness on my part. welcome to the death of my future political career! muahahahahahaa!
step one of the resurrection will be to address a lingering problem i have with hardcore pornography and jurassic park (the movie). travesty of travesties, i can no longer watch porn without laughing and falling out of my chair, a disastrous maneuver considering the obvious physical context. the reason for this charming handicap lies in the ubiquitous (and, in my experience, truly implausable and downright rude) manner in which porn chicks beg for great, ropy, wads of man-aise to be smeared all over their faces. ugh. don't lie to me, your lips cry "shoot it all over me," but that who-in-the-hell-just-hit-me-in-the-face-with-a-fly-swatter? look in your eyes really says it all. did you just run into a wall grabbing for the telephone as fresh shampoo suds dripped in your eyes? no? hmm. could have fooled me...
mkay. daddy's not a fan of the money shot. so what? i'm not the only one keeping that multi-billion dollar industry alive, obviously. so... so my problem is, every time i see that happen i think of the scene at the beginning of jurassic park where that park ranger wrestles with the velociraptor. you know the one? i hear his voice scream "shoooooooot her! SHOOOOOOOOOOOT HERRRRR!" each time someone unleashes le fury on some poor, poor actress. yea, it really messes with the porn mood.
SHOOOOOOOOOT HER!
now you know something new about me. for the gentlemen in the audience, i suggest you surprise your lover by screaming that phrase mid-coitus. they just love it when you do that.
oh if only my AP English teacher could see me now... i want to be a decent man, i really do.
and so i bring our attention back to one of my most favorite-ist topics: smaaaaht porn. oh how i love picking on harvard's amateurish excuse for erotica. h-bomb. say it out loud and it spills from your lips like a cold splattering of marbles. perhaps that's just the very way in which they've composed their latest issue. if you haven't already been fired for reading this at work, please direct your attention to h-bomb's website and a poem entitled "when i imagine fucking you." the title alone is enough to make you want to slam your head in a car door.
now, i'm no literary critic, but if you describe yourselves as "naked bald hyenas / full / of cognac" you are expecting much too much from me, sir. and ladies, please rest easy knowing i will never "sit / atop [your] body / like a tsar / upon / an elephant / and ride into the / rose / horizon / like a real cowboy!" nope. probably won't catch me doing that. probably not. like a real cowboy!
and if that weren't enough to make you wonder what 35 grand a year really buys, please direct your attention to "untitled (on sex, drugs, and money)." first off, don't title your piece "untitled" if you are to directly follow with an actual title, it makes you seem confused and unsure of yourself. secondly, unless you were born before 1960, are on drugs, and are cool don't talk about being on drugs. these days cool people on drugs don't talk about being on drugs. "But here--maybe it was the cocaine, working its artificial empowering magic; maybe it's that this could hardly be called "reality"--" you know what? you sound like Rick James... moreover you sound like the Rick James episode of the Chapelle Show, which i'll admit makes me laugh. a lot.
SHOOOOOOT HER!
and don't say things are "going on with opulent ease." i may not be a smart man, but i know that shift+F7 = thesaurus when you just can't find the right way to say "proper fucking." and "the soccer player is going down on me" just calls the mental image of a strong slide-tackle into the vagina. or was that the image you were going for? ahhhh romance...
...reminds me of a neat little highschool literary magazine called Min... whoops! almost gave up a little too much personal information there, but Reckless should be chuckling up blood by now....
oy. dare i continue? oh what the hell, let's play a little game i like to call "translator." without permission, i'll just steal steal steal away from their website (http://www.h-bomb.org/preview.php?page=8 always cite your sources, bitches!):
H BOMB: Do you think that romance and sexual freedom are mutually exclusive? Does romance depend on modesty, respect, and withholding "free samples"? And then does the responsibility for this fall solely on women? Are male students incapable of changing their attitude on their own, or simply unwilling?
Harvey Mansfield: Romance requires some freedom, for sure. I won't try to say how much. Don Giovanni is a romantic hero because he made many conquests. How can you make a conquest of a woman who wants to hook up?
which i will now translate to:
H BOMB: Dr. Mansfield, i stayed up all night copying and pasting lines from your latest book into an unnecessarily long and regugitative question. would you please add legitimacy to our magazine, even though it's painfully obvious this exercise is completely self-indulgent?
Harvey Mansfield: shouldn't you be smoking pot and playing xbox 360 like normal kids? shit that's what i'd be doing if i were you. i have tenure. leave me alone.
oh h-bomb. where would i be if not for you? welcome back, old boy.
SHOOOOOOOOT HER!!!
11.09.2005
OH MANMEET...
this is what my friggin' day has been like:
Thank you for contacting Dell Consumer Technical Chat Support for Portables. My name is Manmeet. How may I help you today?
un-freakin-believable...
11.08.2005
IN DEFENSE OF MYERS-BRIGGS
i should say that myers-briggs believes i would make a fantastic TV/Radio personality.
game show host?
11.06.2005
HMMMM....
i've become extremely dissatisfied with this entire situation: i'm paying a hefty sum of money to take a hodgepodge of classes with no common thread or direction just so i can sham a future employer into thinking i'm qualified for a job for which i have clearly received no prior training. i don't think i'm very comfortable with that, and tomorrow will be the first day i wake up wishing i hadn't chosen this path.
...most distressing, indeed...
also Myers-Briggs thinks i should be an investment banker or an advertising manager. i've considered killing myself over this little revelation.
10.28.2005
FREE/SAVE TIBET/FERRIS
if, by some miracle, i manage to survive the ensuing deluge of poo-poo heading straight for me at 60-70 knots, please let's celebrate with an international festival of love and joy this coming wednesday. in the meantime, however, please begin a nationwide campaign in my honor, selling as many FREE NAV t-shirt, buttons, painter's caps, slap bracelets, trapper-keepers, and acid-wash parachute pants as possible. in fact, why don't you paint SAVE FUCKFACE on some watertowers in your area. we'll all know that by "FUCKFACE" you really mean "me."
gosh that sure would make me feel better. you know what doesn't make me feel better? parliament lights. what diseased mind conjured up such a foul device, i'll never know...
10.27.2005
OW, MY BRAIN!
if you commit first degree murder by giving someone third degree burns, do they send you to second grade?
jesus christ my brain hurts...
10.20.2005
PS
oh, and if for any reason i happen to die any time soon, someone please publish my blog, take the meager sales revenue and blow it all on horses and prostitutes. what you do with either is your choice.
...More...10.17.2005
10.14.2005
NIGHT SWIMMING
i hosted a dinner party tonight that ended in supremely illegal drunken swimming that promises to get me good and evicted from this straight-laced business of mine. unfortunately, those that i would have preferred to drink with, Reckless, Nelio, Pete, Doris, Em, Reg, and Nik were sadly absent from tonight's festivities.
much love in these trying times. keep hope alive....
10.13.2005
SUCH AN ODD ONE, THIS ONE
on occasion, i've had the idea that there are really a number of very different people swimming around in my brain-soup, talented people of course. why, just yesterday i absently conjured up an image of walking into the middle of a silent wheatfield and opening my wrists to the dusklight, not to die, mind you, but so that my blood could push its way into the black earth like roots while my body wilted and withered away. i must say, minus the blood, it was a very beautiful Marquezian image of natural immortality. then later, when i had to use the bathroom, i caught the image of myself in the mirror and lamented, "(sigh)... so much dick and so little to do..."
both are a bit odd in their own right, and these, of course, are things i would never discuss in polite society, but i think they each illustrate the power of unhinging the creative mind to perform above and beyond what is normally required in an average day. don't be afraid of your freedom, bitches.
word.
10.12.2005
YOU FUCKIN' DIE, I SAID...
well thanks a fucking lot. thanks a big fucking lot, fucker. thanks for stealing my bike. yea, thanks. that's real nice. because i can totally afford another bike. nice. oh yea, like i'm not fucking unemployed and don't have any income or anything. right. thanks a big fat fucking lot. or that it's two miles to class, yea, i guess you thought of that, didn't you, asshole. well you just fucking die, shithead. you fuckin' die, i said...
fuck. you.
10.11.2005
HMMMMM...
ok here's something fairly fucked up: i was letting my mind wander on its own little demented tangents, as i often do in moments of boredom, about what it would be like to get into a massive car accident. i know. it's fucked up. i don't mean i want anyone to get hurt, including me, but it would be a real trip to drive off a bridge, a really tall bridge, into the water. it would be a thrill, wouldn't it? i wouldn't want to die, though, that'd be a drag.
i wouldn't want my car to get hurt, either...
anyone else think about fucked up things like that? i can't be the only one.
rock.
10.10.2005
ME LUCKY CHARM(S)
i don't want to jinx it, but watching the yankees go down tonight against the LAA'soA (or whatever the fuck i have to call them now) made me think that perhaps i'm the catalyst that brings the good mojo to the baseball teams... first the blessed, blessed BoSox (to whom i pledge my undying loyalty and my hetero-sports-crushes 4-eva) and now the Angels...
wait....
technically if i'm the catalyst, i'm merely decreasing the activation energy of the reaction from not mojo to mojo... well... in reality i'm only increasing the likelihood of a Team-Mojo* intermediate with equal chances of converting back to Team + Mojo as TeamMojo, but we can assume both BostonMojo and LAMojo were present in exceedingly small quantities, so let's just ignore the rate-limiting Team-Mojo* to TeamMojo conversion and focus on the Team + Mojo step and, given the relatively fast rate to which the Red Sox and the Angels were converted to the TeamMojo product, we might assume k(lucky charm) of the Mojination reaction is large? yes? However, i'll need to wait until the '05 world series before i can assign Vmax... if LA fails to win the series this year, do we assume i have a higher affinity for Boston than LA? or am i ignoring the competitive [NY]?
we'll just have to wait and see, but the algebra for the postseason becomes exceedingly complex as the playoffs continue.
i'll keep you posted.
10.09.2005
DIE, DIE PAT BENATAR
dear ms. benatar,
throughout my life i have enjoyed your music. from the first time i heard "invincible" vis a vis the kids-can-make-a-difference-too epic, the legend of billie jean, to the haunting "love is a battlefield," and, let us not forget, the ever-poignant "hit me with your best shot," i have stood by you in true Child of the Eighties loyalty. we have grown and blossomed together; you into a seasoned and legendary performer... nay.... vocal powerhouse, and i a young man.
however, after watching the popular reality show, filthy rich cattle drive, featuring a daughter that i've been informed you and neil giraldo sired together in a once-blessed-yet-now-cursed union, i feel a powerful compulsion to destroy any record of my participation in, or association with your music. furthermore, i've taken to a "seek and destroy" attitude towards any likeness of you, the mention of your name, or the use of any/all the lyrics from any of your songs in polite conversation (up to and including the words "love," "is," and "battlefield"). in addition, i find myself absently carving "DIE, DIE PAT BENATAR" into my skin, and seriously investigating the possibility of traveling back in time to kill you, therefore eliminating the slightest chance that you might have any additional children whose mere existence threatens the existence of the universe, itself.
please understand that, previous to this past weekend, i could sing every line to "we belong" with the deepest of devotion, so you can imagine my disappointment when i discovered the song did not, in fact, refer to a lost love affair with a man from your past, rather a lost love affair with The Dark Lord, himself; an affair that produced the hellish beast of a she-devil you may or may not claim as your own... pardon the expression... flesh and blood.
how could you do this to us, pat benatar? we loved you so, but now...
well, now i'm left with no choice but to bid you a bitter farewell. i'm not one to judge another person on the character they've instilled in their offspring, but i do have one lingering question for you that i think you'll agree deserves a thoughtful response before we part company for good:
ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR FUCKING MIND, PAT BENATAR? ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR FUCKING MIND??
why, oh why haven't you commissioned an angry mob of simple, luddite, english farmers to stab at your daughter with greasy pitchforks, hoist her limp, freakish body on their shoulders, carry her to a tidy brick commons, and burn her at the stake, thus ending your abominable insult towards an otherwise loving and providing god? i ask you, pat benatar, ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR FUCKING MIND??! ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR FUCKING MIND?!?
thank you and farewell. sincerely-
-R
10.06.2005
TAINTED WHAT NOW?
we all made out with a girl in the common bathroom of our freshman dorm after drowning 14 busch light and baby sips of boone's farm, and while we we could taste the karkov plastic vodka jell-o shots on her lips, we always heard the downloaded version of Soft Cell's 'Tainted Love' blasting out of our roommate's computer speakers in the background. we knew it. we loved it.
but what else can we attribute to marc almond and soft cell? well, thanks in no small part to the wonder of satellite radio, i know exactly what marc almond and soft cell ended up doing with their glamorous lives... that something, my friends, is 'Sex Dwarf':
Isn't it nice
Sugar and spice
Luring disco dollies
To a life of vice
I could make a film
And make you my star
You'd be a natural
The way you are
I would like you on
A long black leash
I would parade you
Down the high street
You've got the attraction
You've got the pulling power
Walk my little doggy
Walk my little sex dwarf
(Here, doggy, doggy)
We could make a scene
We'd be a team
Making the headlines
Sounds like a dream
When we hit the floor
You just watch them move aside
We will take them
For a ride of rides
They all love your
Miniature ways
You know what they say
About small boys
Sex dwarf...
(Look it's so huge!)
10.05.2005
10.03.2005
WHERE GOOD TASTE COMES TO DIE
recently, one of my good friends fulfilled his lifelong dream to appear on The Price is Right, and was lucky enough to win a brand new car. there's something awe inspiring about a dream realized, no matter how unique, and i feel as if i should get some of my own dreams down on e-paper...
ahem... below is a short list of things i would like to accomplish before i depart this cruel, cruel world:
1. live in a house designed by Frank Lloyd Wright.
2. develop technology or policy that blends long-term economic incentive with environmental protection that will have cascading effects throughout the developed and developing world.
3. get S.E.Bextor to polish my knob with Tiger Balm.
modest wants, my friends, modest wants. did you ever have a day in which you didn't believe a single word you said? with the exception of this post, today is that day for me. i sat through an ethics class today; the topic was 'gender in science,' which quickly deteriorated into a discussion of gender discrimination in the sciences, and i, in my own charming idiosyncratic way, played the devil's advocate in the midst of a powerful spell of boredom.
needless to say, i will neither have sex with a woman, nor will i find gainful employment in this state so long as i live. ahhhh the strides i take to entertain myself... thanks to Pete for a sweet weekend; one of many i'm sure.
i'm in a terrible rush... someone check my spelling and grammar for me...
9.30.2005
HMMM....
does Lamaze work for anything besides giving birth? i awoke with the image of a well-dressed, successful, adult male huffing "HEEE HEEE WHOOOOO" through a tax audit. cracks me up....
...More...9.29.2005
ASS: THE GATEWAY DRUG
now, it's no secret that i'm a patron of the sex-industry blogs. not pornography, necessarily, but those devoted to enacting social change through leveraging the multi-billion dollar sex industry. good for them.
and i just read an article titled "Ass: The Gateway Drug" that nearly made me shit my pants, i laughed so hard.
maybe on another night i wouldn't be in such a great mood, but three monumental things happened on this special day:
1) the sox pulled off one of the greatest wins i've seen since the ALCS in '04
2) i made the decision to get shitfaced directly following the game, and
3) i suddenly discovered i had a microbiology test due at midnight tonight
number 3 might seem a bit out of place, and i'll admit i was a 200lb ball of stress for a minute there, until i aced that motherfucker in exactly 18 fucking seconds without ever having shown up for class while drunk off my sweet, czech-italian-irish ass.
shabbat shalom, motherfuckers.
OMG, OMFG
david ortiz. fucking david ortiz. seriously. are you kidding me? i mean, RUFKM?
and yea i look to the west, and on the great spines of titans rose the race of man who took the thunder and transformed clouds into great fireballs of flashing energy, and on their fingertips brewed swirling storms of doom for those that cast their eyes to the ground when the Mighty shook the pillars of man's world. i looked up to the sky and was rewarded with the faces of ten score glimmering angels smiling down on my pitiful race; they reached down from the multitude and, lo, great beams of light pierced my body, and i was transformed into a shining ball of joy at the mention of What Was to Come.
that shit makes me hard, man, i mean that shit fucking rocks my fucking world. hooo yea!
FUN WITH STRANGERS!
i think a really neat way to meet people is to walk up to them and say, "hi there, i'm ____ and i'm crap in bed!"
...More...9.28.2005
ADIOS, FUCK-O
anyone taking bets as to how long it'll take tom delay to weasel and slime his way out of (clearly legitimate) charges of conspiracy? or will the president bail him out? or will we just forget the whole thing, like when carl rove illegally revealed Valerie Plame's CIA affiliation?
...More...HAPPY BIRTHDAY (AND SUCH)
extra happy birthday to Pete today!!
and special thanks to Ryan, Andrew, Amy, Colby, Hillary, and Kate for getting me just barely drunk tonight and reminding me that this particular university is missing the spirit of nudity instilled by my last citadel of education. this is something i plan to remedy. take cover, california!
9.27.2005
JUSTICE OF THE PEACE
i'm not one to foster ill relationships with the elderly, but today i was pushed just a little too far.
...Renteria just doubled to score Damon and Graffaninio... the sun rises in the East...
first off, one could argue that these past few days have been a little difficult for me, and i'm in no mood to fuck around, but the gauntlet landed squarely at my feet while i was minding my sweet nevermind in a small library on campus.
...Papi singles to drive Renteria in for his 143rd RBI, and NY is down by 4 in the 3rd... birds sing in the morning light...
I may have spoken 10 words to a woman in one of my classes, desperately trying to sort through my disastrous conflagration of a devolving class schedule, when i'm approached by an eerily-fast moving old woman who catches me off guard. "if you're going to talk, you're going to have to find somewhere else to do it. these people can't work if you're going to talk so loudly."
funny, i thought. i've been here the longest, and i've watched these two people sitting next to me, the ONLY other people in the place, check their email for exactly 10 seconds apiece. i'm certain the three of us could sort this out.
but, my Midwest sensibility kept me from tearing into this poor, old woman. "i'm very sorry," i whispered, "sometimes my voice carries an-"
"there are places outside where you can talk," she interrupted.
"yes, i know i'm sorry. i'll go th-." she cut me off again. i was beginning to lose my temper.
"we have those places here, you know."
i felt like it was a good time to leave; i had no patience for police interviews, and i was in no mood to have a confession beaten out of me. i stood up politely and sunk into a deeply hidden kiosk in the middle of the library. about 10 minutes later, while silently reading my book, minding my sweet nevermind, i spy this same woman down a long aisle of periodicals. "they're in the store room, rita!" she yells to the other side of the library, 50 feet away.
my toes curled with pleasure. ho ho!
then she saw me and froze, like, deer-in-headlights froze. i raised one taught finger to my lips, leaned forward, and let a looooong, slooow "shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh" pour from my mouth like a full pot of scalding hot coffee.
...Damon singles to score Mueller... angels shower good cheer on the people of earth...
though it was dark, i could see the crimson rise in her bubblegum face. after she had cleared out, i rose triumphantly and strode out of the library. the king of that particular motherfucking castle.
i know it's bad karma, but sometimes even and old woman needs a swift kick in the ass.
...Renteria is 3 for 3... be still my beating heart... i'll be damned if it still doesn't pump that dirty water...
9.25.2005
PS
thinking about Boston finishing up the season against NY at Fenway this weekend is making my entire fucking decade. hooo-yea.
...More...WAX ON, WAX OFF
after the unpleasantness at the Safeway, i stopped to fill up on gas. As i watched the price sprint upwards, i couldn't help but think about what it had taken me to earn the money that was pouring into the gas tank. one hour of work... one hour of overtime... two hours of work...
in my mind i could suddenly see all the things i've gained and lost as some horrible equation of winding and unraveling; have i been living a zero sum game all this time? how terrifying it must be to think that, no matter the circumstances, there will always be a loss that nullifies each gain, that 'wax on, wax off' is not only funny, but true in a died-in-a-car-accident-his-first-time-behind-the-wheel way.
strange days....
OH THIS WILD AND STRANGE PLACE
i got into it with a yankee fan today in the Safeway parking lot. he started it. i noticed him on my way out, he was wearing a NY shirt with 'Ruth' printed on the back and i, in my Boston cap, gave him the nod of 'ahoy, friend! our passion for the game unites us!' to which he replied, 'Red Sox suck,' without a hint of humor or irony.
oh they suck? thought i, just like your taste in women? making note of the bulbous she-demon walking along side my newest nemesis, though a quick analysis of the man's physical stature and my own disadvantage of being burdened with armloads of groceries told me perhaps the thought was best kept inside my head rather than out.
he escaped with a tacit warning from my smoldering eyes that beamed, 'your behavior degrades both you and the team you claim to support, should we happen upon each other again, i will be more than willing to deal you out a stiff thrashing. until that day, sir!'
strange days, indeed....
9.19.2005
ONLY TOOK TWO DAYS BEFORE THE FINGERNAILS MET WITH THEIR UNTIMELY DEMISE
i was feeling a bit overwhelmed and unhappy today so, as a natural instinct, i drove myself to whole foods for some comfort food. unfortunately, as i was about to discover, shopping at a strange whole foods is a lot like being cared for by a new babysitter: you never know what to expect when you turn a corner, the menu for dinner is subject to change at any minute, and you're left feeling confused and dehydrated when you awake the next morning.
on second thought, that analogy might only apply to my unique childhood experience but, nevertheless, i think you get the point.
well-tested and proven grocery stores promote a healthy, aggressive shopping agenda, because one always arrives with a plan, and the familiarity of one's surroundings provides the home-field-advantage required for swift success. shopping at an unfamiliar grocery store, however, is a lot like jerking off with your left hand; it takes waaaaay too long, and you're left feeling like maybe you should have just gotten take-out.
once again, my unique childhood experience may be spoiling my objectivity...
but i digress.
i came home, ate goat cheese and pretzels, cooked sweet and sour lemongrass soup with jumbo prawns, drank sam adams, and watched the daily show. it was as close to home as i could rig it. tomorrow morning i get to meet a bunch of kids that share my grand delusion that more education will somehow make me a better person.
i've considered showing up high.
9.18.2005
SOMEWHERE OUTSIDE OF CHEYENNE I BEGAN TO HALLUCINATE
ladies and gentlemen, like many great travelers and explorers from William Lewis (Will Clark was a little bitch) to every dirty, haky-sack playing, frisbee ("Bee")-hucking, trustafarian-turned-dot-commer in silicon valley, i have finally arrived in California. the journey west, however, was not the wild, sex-doused road trip glorified by the movie of that same name; mine was much less exciting and much more... i might say "painful" for simplicity sake.
i began to hallucinate, if you'll recall, somewhere around Cheyenne, but certainly my agony neither began, nor ended in that desolate Wyoming town.
-in Rockford i started to question the majesty of the Westward-Ho! movement, but i still maintained a cautious sense of optimism.
-somewhere around Des Moines i realized there was really no turning back in this little endeavor of mine, a fact that crept over my soul with the icy fingers of terror once i learned the truth: corn is dumb.
-when we finally reached Omaha, Nebraska, the seeds of a rather nasty and irritating brain tumor took root in my memory and emotional nuclei. i know this because, 200 miles into that horrid, god-forsaken state, i began to wish that i were still in Iowa. i longed for the sweeping vistas and jagged peaks of Iowa.
-crossing the border into Wyoming, constant and violent shivers overtook my weakened body, and i noticed ghostly clouds of eerie light appearing randomly on the side of the road, forcing me to swerve fiercely to avoid collision as they darted in front of the car.
-200 miles outside of Salt Lake City, i contracted Lupus.
-i did manage to see a rather breathtaking sunrise over a sprawling sulfur mine 275 from Reno. "i would be remiss if i didn't compliment Nevada on it's magnificent vistas," i remarked.
"i am in total agreement with you, dawg," replied Benjamin Franklin, and passed me the barbecue-flavored sunflower seeds.
-crossing through the Donner Pass into California, i made the grievous but necessary decision to eat Benjamin Franklin's lifeless corpse. years later i would defend my actions by declaring, "with averted eyes and trembling hand, pieces of flesh were severed from the inanimate form and laid upon the coals. it was the very refinement of torture to taste such food, yet those who tasted lived...." in my book, Why I Ate Ben Franklin, which would stay on the New York Times best-seller list for 18 weeks.
-i awoke from a diabetic coma in the bay area, unable to taste salt and only able to speak in the gerund tense... or rather i was only able to participate in the speaking of the gerund tense. i was also an apprentice in a 15th century Venetian metalsmithing shop.
fortunately, the immensity of our little expedition tipped the scales at a paltry 37 hours, and we arrived promptly at 6pm...
...at which time i was told (and i'm not making this up) that there was no record of any arrangement made between me and the apartment building to which i had been assigned.
9.12.2005
MY ULTIMATE FANTASY
i've discovered my most ultimate and sinful fantasy: i want to gather together all the girls from MTV's My Super Sweet 16, line them up neatly, and then punch each and every one of them directly in the face.
...More...9.11.2005
DIE, SPAM, DIE!
sorry folks, you will have to pass a human-readable verification system to post on my blog now. fucking auto-spammers have ruined all my harmless, little fun. die, die, die!
...More...ENTER THE DRAGON
so i'm driving along by the lake yesterday, driving along, la la la la, enjoying a quiet pleasant day, just miiiiidin' my own business, driving up s. main street like i've done a million times before, driving along, making that gentle left turn by the water treatment plant, when all of a sudden, BAM! ninjas everywhere.
imagine my surprise.
the quiet lawns on both sides of the street were littered with men and women dressed in black ninja uniforms fighting with wooden swords. i quickly went through a simple psychological test i happened to have in my glove compartment to determine if, in fact, i had left this dimension and arrived in one of the earlier scenes of Enter the Dragon (you know, the part where Bruce Lee gets the tour of the island and there are all those ninjas training in the courtyard?) but, yea verily, i had not left this dimension, and ninjas were, in fact, training on the grassy knoll down by the lakeshore. i found myself filled with an uncomfortable sense of awe and the fear that perhaps we had reached a point in our history in which--owing to the unraveling of our military dominance and the ever-shittening of our foreign policy--we had regressed to a feudal system of land ownership, and it was now necessary for titled landowners to maintain private armies of well-trained, fatally loyal samuri.
on the other hand, i also felt a strange sense of comfort in the fact that i could now, deep down in my heart, believe that somewhere in this world there were, indeed, ninjas training en masse in some grassy courtyard. ahhhh....
9.06.2005
RENO 911
jesus fucking christ, can i just tell you how miserable i am right now? i mean honestly, what the fuck?
...not like ian curtis "ice age" miserable, just more like the very end of "all over the world" pixies miserable...
a whole fistfull of suck finally caught up with me today, so i think i'll get mucho drunk-o and watch Reno 911 until the weee hours of the morning. but it's not like me to be miserable; misery is so distasteful when there are so many other things to revel in, such as my new 6'3" St. Croix extra-fast action fishing rod...
...or porn.
and my all-time favorite movie line (aside from, first you have to purify yourself in the waters of Lake Minnetonka): "he wouldn't know a good idea if it bit him in the pachanga." what does that even mean?
I KNOW YOU WEREN'T THE ONE WHO GOT BABY IN TROUBLE
i dreamed last night that i was singing I Could Never Take the Place of Your Man with Prince on stage at First Ave.... i also got the feeling Jerry Orbach was in the audience.
perhaps this is my little glimpse of heaven...
8.31.2005
I'VE GONE COMPLETELY FUCKING MENTAL
first off, i would like to address the individual (or individuals) who thought it best to post spam on my blog disguised as an authentic comment: please return to the putrid, lice-infested vomitorium from which you emerged so that you may die an agonizing death paralyzed from the neck down while large, rabid swamprats feast and commune within your entrails and crows pick the skin from your bones.
die, die, die.
now that i've dispatched that particular piece of unpleasantness, i shall continue on to the more pressing matter of my going completely fucking mental. you see, my friends, i have gone completely fucking mental. in the span of three days i willed myself to (oft times drunkenly) assemble all my worldly shit, send it westward, quit my job, drive a thousand goddamn miles (totally and completely car-tarded), move in with my parents, get semi-drunk, and attempt to publicly re-hash these events with the hope i will eventually wake up to the fact that, yes, this actually did happen and, no, tammy faye baker will not appear and titter, you don't need to be helped any longer, you've always had the power to go back to kansas...
that's right, i just quoted the wizard of oz, and no, i don't know why tammy faye is glinda. it's my dream, fuckers.
it really sucks though, leaving everyone behind. i sent E and DMC back to boston yesterday, and this is the first time i've had the chance to sit down and assess the damage. thankfully mom and dad went and got themselves cable and DSL, so i can at least watch Hogan Knows Best and check up on my favorite nudie websites, though they both have failed to bring me the kind of joy i've come to expect.
no more Redbones, no more Thai dish, no more buffalo burgers and jack daniels at Joshua Tree for Sox games, no more Fenway, no more T, no more Barking Crab, Border Cafe, John Harvard's, Grafton St., Burren, Sligo... no more bitchy Cambridge chicks, no more slutty Faneuil Hall girls, no more chubby Davis babes, no more Harvard smarties, no more BU hotties... no more swanky redline, no more slow-ass green line, no more people-watching on Newbury, no more skateboarding on memorial drive on sundays, no more beach days in Glouster, no more pissing on national landmarks in Cambridge, no more Vermont road trips, no more mountainclimbing in NH, trivia night, getting fucked up on back bay roofdecks, house parties in allston, frat parties in somerville, mike's cannoli in the north end, scorpion bowls in cambridge, hangover after hangover after hangover....
coffee at 9am, whole foods at 6pm, on demand in bed by 10pm.... driving over the mass ave bridge to work at sunrise, waking up happy, fucking around mercilessly at a fortune 500 company, working hard, playing hard, loving hard, bitching, kicking, screaming, and having such a good goddamn time, i feel like i'm nuts to let it all slide.
i do love that dirty water...
on the other side of this bitter little coin, i find a warm welcome here in wisco. i can't help but think that in the midst of all the insanity of the past two years, i've managed to find the precise people i was looking for; those that, when i go back, will behave as if nothing at all has transpired in the meantime. it's like that here, now, giving me just the proper amount of egocentricity to believe that i actually matter in the greater whirlwind of all this madness.
farewell and best wishes to all. it's been a great fucking wild ride.
California, you're my new bitch. brace yourself, sweetheart....
8.18.2005
8.11.2005
HOLY FUCK
ummm... speaking of things that happened between 1980 and 1989, but just fucking barely, i've just discovered brooke hogan was born in 1988.
1988. that's nineteen eighty-eight.
now, i'll admit there are a number of things wrong with that, not the least of which is my comment about 'building a lasting masturbation fantasy' about a girl i assumed was well into her twenties who, in fact, is only seventeen years old.
but more importantly, i had my first fucking ten-speed by 1988 when brooke hogan was born. it was made by Huffy. it was the fucking tits.
without pointing out that, according to UK standards, i am technically not a pedophile, i think i'll just end this auto-conversation and start fresh tomorrow.
god i hope nicole richie's not jailbait...
HOGAN KNOWS BEST?
i'm boning up on my pop culture (tee hee... 'boning') and i've decided i really, really dislike Johnny Fairplay, but i really, really fucking love Xzibit...
i tuned into 'Hogan Knows Best' on VH1, hoping to build a lasting masturbation fantasy with Brooke Hogan, but instead i flipped to the show just as Hulk ('Terry'... fucking priceless) was pulling his trademark red and yellow wrasslin' tights over his black thong.
yes, i just saw Hulk Hogan's 50 year-old ass clad only in one, giant, melancholy thong.
i'm not sure how long i will pursue this generation's pop culture. perhaps i'll drink a bottle of jameson and enjoy 10 straight hours of 'I Love the 80's' (1980-1989). that ought to put me back on track again...
wait... i seem to recall something about 'Hulkamania' that occurred during that timeframe...
goddamnit...
SAND EVERY FUCKING PLACE
i caught a whiff of tidiness in the air tonight and attacked my untidy room with the prejudice reserved for seasoned field marines. i discovered there's sand every fucking place in here as if, bit by bit, the insidious sahara were creeping its dusty fingers towards my bed...
which is also filled with sand.
i gnash my teeth with disbelief but, alas, there's no use fighting the inevitable heat-death of the universe.... lousy goddamn entropy.
so a funny thing happened to me yesterday: i was walking home from work, minding my own pretty business, not hurting anyone, whistling a pleasant tune whilst tiptoeing down the sunny lane, and some dumb-fuck woman drove her mercedes into a man driving a motorcycle in the opposite direction.
apparently she really, really wanted that parking space.
so there i stood, the only witness to the scene unfolding before me like the gentleman on the motorcycle tumbling down the pavement in a miraculous recreation of pollock's White Light (the one from Coleman's Free Jazz... thank you Ken Burns!)
(PS. NYC by Interpol is a really great fucking song)
where was i? yes, the leaky gentleman on the busted motorcycle, yes...
so i, of course, morph from being a witness to the scene to being The Eyewitness to the Scene as far as the Cambridge police (te he... "police") were concerned, and spent the better part of my dwindling late-afternoon-early-evening acting as the only one with a fucking clue. i refuse to believe that these people can live/drive in cambridge/boston and not know how to handle themselves in a traffic crisis... i had to call the towtruck in for chrissake.
oy.
so anyway, i've decided to think of my bedroom as one tiny beach, and my bed is the sailboat that will take me away to dream island... thankfully this boat comes equipped with wireless internet. did i say 'internet porn?' i meant NPR.org...
sweet dreams, kids.
8.10.2005
SHE'S A BITCH...
8.06.2005
TATTOO BADASS
if i ever get another tattoo, it'll be a picture of me fighting a T-Rex with nunchuks...
that'd be superbadass.
8.05.2005
8.04.2005
DRIVING MISS DAISY
i'm getting back into pop culture again (relatively speaking, pop culture reached its glorious apex in 1986. duh), and i've noticed something very strange about jessica simpson...
is she a symbol of christian purity and moral fortitude, or is she an eeensy-weensy little flesh vixen? i am so confused...
also, i think she has a touch of the palsy...
...and my strange fascination with Nicole Richie continues... maybe because i'd love to be Lionel's son-in-law? how sweet would that be? i could be an honorary Commodore!!
8.03.2005
CAFTA
i totally forgot to rant about CAFTA...
you, the public, get to decide:
CAFTA: a thinly veiled economic hegemony that will no doubt subjugate the slave labor force of poorer nations while the vast chasm between the ultra-rich and the growing numbers of unemployed on both sides of the border widens a notch (and the veritable treasure chest of anti-american 'extremists' bulks up under the newly created dictatorships in Central America, paving the way for future attacks on the US)...
...or giant box of cock?
you decide.
the ruling party in this great, but wounded nation of mine (i.e. Senator Fuckusintheass, R-Everywhere) would have me believe it's in the interest of national security to bring forth riches and good tithe to poorer nations, but tell me this: when the only work in the neighborhood is sewing nike shoes together for pennies a day, while phil knight saves $5.15 per hour on labor costs, what the fuck are these people going to eat? a hungry man is an angry man, and a hungry mob is an angry mob. learn from your mistakes, jackasses.
And by god, i just found my copy of Sandinista!
Oh, Mama, Mama look there
Your children are playing in that street again
Don't you know what happened down there?
A youth of fourteen got shot down there
The Kokane guns of Jamdown Town,
The killing clowns, the blood money men
Are shooting those
Washington bullets again
As every cell in Chile will tell
The cries of the tortured men
Remember Allende, and the days before,
Before the army came
Please remember Victor Jara,
In the Santiago Stadium,
Es verdad - those Washington Bullets again
And in the Bay of Pigs in 1961,
Havana fought the playboy in the Cuban sun,
For Castro is a colour,
Is a redder than red,
Those Washington bullets want Castro dead
For Castro is the colour......
That will earn you a spray of lead
For the very first time ever,
When they had a revolution in Nicaragua,
There was no interference from America
Human rights in America
Well the people fought the leader,
And up he flew...
With no Washington bullets what else could he do?
If you can find a Afghan rebel
That the Moscow bullets missed
Ask him what he thinks of voting Communist......
Ask the Dalai Lama in the hills of Tibet,
How many monks did the Chinese get?
In a war-torn swamp stop any mercenary,
Check the British bullets in his armoury
8.02.2005
LE' GOAT
while flipping through my work notebook, i came across the following passage:
...somedays i develop a nasty pain the my leg, which i attribute to a past injury involving my freshly-tarred roof and a particularly ill-tempered goat. i find the pain to be nearly unbearable, especially in the company of women, and i am quite unable to remove their various petticoats, a most unfortunate condition, indeed...
i'm a scientist. such things should not appear in my notebook, and i don't think i was the one who put it there, having neither leg-injury, nor freshly tarred-roof, nor goat.
strange days, indeed, friends...
7.31.2005
POST #125
it's hard to believe it's my 125th post, but i'll try to make it count.
i'll take a moment to recount the event's of Reckless's surprise visit to Boston due to the recent unpleasantness in the UK, and his family's reluctance to sacrifice their special boy to foreign gods.
Reckless rolled into town on one of the few remaining functional amtrack trains, sobering up from the second binge of the day (the first occurring in merry Olde England, the second and third in merry Newe England), with the intention of seeing the premier garçon d'or off to his new career in social absenteeism (aka med school). on our arrival, we were greeted by the reminder of why theme parties can work so well; slutty nurse costumes. it was what you might call 'our element' but, not wanting to corrupt the reunionn with the old habits of debauchery and intoxication, we kept things pretty low key and left with grace to finish off the night on a rooftop in the back bay.
so goes it for weekends...
monday night, on the other hand, kept us local to preserve what tiny threads of decorum still remained in my professional life, and we tacitly agreed to eat buffalo and get fucked up. and get fucked up we did. along the way, i felt the powerful craving to watch fear and loathing in las vegas, but i did not own the movie, so we were forced to drunkenly shuffle through the inventory of three separate video stores before tracking it down at hollywood express.
of course, i'd never rented anything from hollywood express...
there's nothing quite like dealing out government-issued personal information and laying down a major credit card with a BOC hovering around .20, especially when you get to involve a friend who's mumbling 'mmmmm... chocolate, chocolate, chocolate' and smelling candy bars like well-aged cuban cigars. suddenly i looked down at the form i had been 'filling out' (with my left hand, no less) and realized i had the opportunity to add my mumbling friend to my video rental account.... with any restrictions i saw fit to impose on my new ward. i turned to him and decided i wasn't ready to expose him to any R-rated material (...wrote that on the form...), then i turned to the clerk and deadpanned 'and no sugar... i'm serious' (...wrote that on the form...).
many apologies, reckless. you will no longer be able to rent R-rated movies or purchase hershey bars at the hollywood video in davis square.
thanks for dropping into town, even if it was under unfortunate circumstances. it's always a good time, and never predictable with you around.
cheers-
7.29.2005
7.23.2005
ALMA MATER THROWBACK
...sitting on my porch finishing off the last two bottles of wine from the fridge, watching the lightning storm go off, enjoying good, solid canadian cigarettes, listeneng to OMD...
how cool is that?
fuck it. i'm going for a naked run tonight!
7.22.2005
7.21.2005
CORRESPONDENCE COURSE
i realize i'm an ass about keeping in touch with old friends.
i don't know why this is. if i had to speculate i would say, at least at this point in my life, that most of the events that transpire are discrete sections of overlapping storylines, and when summoned ('unpaused'?... can we dig that?) things pick up pretty much where they left off. my assumption is that people do not fundamentally change, so therefore my relationships with people do not fundamentally change. but the subtle weathering of unshared experiences tends to move people in different directions, and being continuously aware of myself, i feel like many of these people are drifting away.
perhaps the real tragedy is that i don't see myself doing much at all right now but drinking, watching baseball, fucking off to the beach, and saving money while the hoi polloi pulls their shit together; med school, law school, marriage, kids... good for them, though, it's something to be damn proud of, and pretty exciting if you ask me. many of them have happy, happy dogs, which just makes me insanely jealous because i have no dogs.
on the other hand, i'm 99% sure i'm exaggerating, and life is pretty terrific for me these days, and i suppose i could get a happy dog, and it's a fantastic beach day today, and there are still a few girls out there waiting to take my picture, and drinking in moderation helps ward off heart disease, and the fish are biting, and barbecue keeps the mosquitos away...
i might just say that things aren't half bad.
7.19.2005
CRAZY CARL!
mmmkay... so scott mcclellan (et. al.) maintains carl rove was merely trying to steer le' conversation away from former ambassador wilson when he revealed wilson's wife worked for the CIA, and that he should be exonerated for this great service to national security and, indeed, the great american way of life...
i may just be smoking the fruity crack here, but isn't that statement, by definition, implicative of rove's illegal revelation?
keep your eyes on this one. i give it 1000000:1 odds the white house shuffles down the 'ol potomac two-step on this issue, but does anyone really believe the CIA is all that happy with rove right now? sounds like a made-for-History-Channel movie where they end the program with a floating picture of carl rove in a happy, smiling place, but the music suggests there are so many unsolved mysteries and unanswered questions surrounding rove's unexplained disappearance...
oooooooooo!
*
...recent blog edits reflect the need to protect the innocent.... and charming....and easy on the eyes....
...More...7.18.2005
PHOTO - OP
i believe the CIA is tracking my every move. driving home tonight i happened to glance over at a car full of what i assessed to be good looking young women and, noticing my glance, they grinned, waved, and displayed general excitement towards my appearance, a fact that, until i realized they had probably graduated highschool within the last three months, provided me a much-needed ego boost in an otherwise discouraging day. i considered engaging them in car conversation, or at the very least pulling over to buy them alcohol and marlboro lights, but i was concurrently preoccupied with adjusting the bittersweet New Order pouring from my car stereo. when we stopped at the next light, i turned just in time to see the front passenger snap a quick photo of me and my car. 'you're cute!' she bubbled...
i drove off wondering what twisted ploy had been set in motion; what foul play lay in wait for me. my doors are locked, my windows are shut, and i sit agonizing over who would send such a phalanx of post-pubescent girls to track me down....
SON OF A BITCH!! (cont..)
managed to splash scalding hot coffee into my nose on the downsip this morning. you'd think with the excessive training i've received in the drinking arts, i wouldn't make such mistakes. goddamnit!!
...More...7.16.2005
EVIL EMPIRE
are yankee fans better sportsmen than Sox fans? the pinstripers will tell you that every time they come to Boston they get exactly zero respect, but what about respect for the game? when gary sheffield remarks, "my season is when I get paid... I'm not sacrificing my body or taking a chance on an injury for something that's made up" with regard to the first true 'world series,' i question his commitment to sportsmanship.
...More...7.14.2005
SON OF A BITCH!!
i was just blowing bubbles into my coffee mug and scalding hot coffee splashed into my eye. goddamnit!!
...More...7.12.2005
PESTO & POLITICS
two very important things have happened in the last couple of days that i would like to discuss in this post, 1) it became clear that carl rove was involved in exposing Valerie Plame as a CIA agent and 2) i had a close encounter with my favorite italian chef ('dream woman' might accurately be applied, as well), Giada de Laurentiis. since it's early tuesday morning and i can't be bothered to dive into political analysis, i'll focus on the latter.
ahem...
that was just a little too warm and fuzzy for my usual tuesday morning but, nevertheless, one must take pleasure in the simple passions in life, yes?
then again, there will always be villains in this world that deserve equal attention. wax on, wax off. before i get carried away, let me tell you that i believe deep down in my heart that carl rove is a very keen, very astute deputy chief of staff, and very conscious of his own agenda (to the extent that his agenda and the executive agenda run together is a topic for another sunny day). i also sense carl rove is a man who believes very deeply in the breaking-eggs-to-make-an-omelet philosophy, and that, in his mind, he exists to 'rescue' a united states from whatever evil is on the plate today (moral destruction, 'terror,' what have you). but that's just my opinion, so take whatever i say with a big, fat, gritty grain of kosher salt...
it was the rove email to Time reporter Matthew Cooper in which he states "it was (former ambassador Joseph) Wilson's wife, who apparently works at the agency on WMD..." that revealed Plame's position in the CIA. rove's lawer, rober luskin, mantains the deputy chief of staff was not aware Plame was an undercover agent, though luskin does not deny Plame's identity was compromised by the email. logically, there are two conclusions that one can derive from these facts:
1) carl rove is a big, fat, stupid-head and he does not have a strong grasp of US politics and policy
2) carl rove deliberately provided information concerning Plame's position in the CIA
either is possible, but i personally don't believe a shrewd politician like carl rove would make such a mistake. if you're interested enough to read this far and not saunter off to the latest and greatest of Brangelina news, you'll know full well that the white house is no friend of Plame or her husband, and that that convenience of these events is a bit hard to swallow... at least for a cynic such as myself...
then again, as i stood waiting for the midnight train to somerville last night, i found myself wondering what it would be like to know the current white house agenda in its entirety, and how horrifying that knowledge would be. it's discouraging, but deep down i know i can just turn on the Food Network at 1:30 and make it all better.
focus on the positive and tomorrow won't seem like such a big goddamn clusterfuck, no?
cheers.
7.11.2005
THE JD/NO STREAM...
Reckless brings up an interesting topic concerning the lyrics re-published in the Can't....Stop....Listening post; my contention is that the song 'Dreams Never End' was released on a New Order EP in 1981, but since Ian Curtis appeared on the album it must have been recorded as a Joy Division track (in reference to the agreement that should one of the band members leave and/or die and/or hang himself after watching a documentary on alcoholic Wisconsinites, the remaining band members would continue under a new moniker). Hence 'Dreams Never End' was released as a New Order cut, but recorded when the band was Joy Division.
sound reasonable? it's all so very confusing in the early 80s mess of re-releases, singles, 7", and 12" that made music so goddamn fantastic in those days....
7.10.2005
THANKS!
got smoked in beirut last night by an ace, so i had to take the T home. I fell asleep on the train and no one robbed or stabbed me.
thanks boston!
7.09.2005
CAN'T...STOP...LISTENING...
this song has been running through my head for weeks:
My promise could be your fiend
A given end to your dreams
A simple movement or rhyme
Could be the smallest of signs
We'll never know what they are or care
In it's escapable view
There's no escape so few in fear
Give in a changing value
To be given your sight
Hid in a long peaceful night
A nervous bride for your eyes
A fractured smile that soon dies
A love that's wrong from your life and soul
A savage mine had begun
Hello, farewell to your love and soul
Hello, farewell to your soul
Now I know what those hands would do
No looking back now, we're pushing through
We'll change these feelings, we'll taste and see
But never guess how the him would scream
But never guess how the him would scream
make it stop!
NEW KIND OF ICKY HANGOVER
my strategy for keeping friends from drunk driving last night was to order great, gorgeous, sticky mountains of general tso's chicken from the takeout place down the street (so tasty i believe jesus christ himself eats there when he's lit), and watching Harold and Kumar go to White Castle until 4 am.
now i have an odd type of jack-and-coke-and-MSG hangover, and i'm really not sure if Harold and Kumar was a great movie or a horrible movie.
7.08.2005
OH I LOVE THAT DIRTY WATER
this is why i love the boston globe...
lets thank our lucky stars Reckless can't get his lazy, goldbricking, ass out of bed before 3 (and that his parents would never, ever, ever allow him to live in the east end). Thankfully no one will ever figure you out enough to follow through with any hate crime (is he indian? he sort of looks tibetan... do we have anything against tibet? well i'm pretty sure he's not jewish, so maybe we should just continue dancing to this synth-pop remix of 'time after time').
ok, so i don't have a fucking clue what english intolerants do...
take care of yourself, boy-o
7.05.2005
OH JAY, JAY, JAY....
i like to torture myself...
i was listening to jay severin again on the radio, and he's taken to calling democrats (and all leftist demographics) 'democrats' and all conservatives 'patriots,' which by definition makes me unpatriotic.
here's a little ethics lesson for jay severin.
if patriotism means i do not have the right to sit in my own house doing whatever the fuck i feel like, hurting no one, thinking whatever the fuck i want, and not fucking with anyone else's right to do whatever the fuck they want to themselves... then yea... i'm not a patriot. in fact, if that's your definition of patriotism, you can shove patriotism right up your self-righteous ass. you can fuck right off, you hate-crime-soliciting kitten fuckers.
i happen to believe in individual rights, and i happen to believe that in a functional democracy the most sacred of all ideologies is the respect for individual rights. Tom DeLay can go fondle anyone he likes and go on his merry way, and you won't hear a peep from me, but i will not look the other way when he shysters 2.5 million in lobbyist money into his pockets while po' white trash in Texas lose health care, education, and the very basic needs to survive and pull themselves out of the debt slavery these 'patriots' have created for them.
patriotism means believing in a community that does not allow these villains to get away with murder at the expense of those who only ask for the elementary tools of survival. that's what i believe...
i also believe Giada de Laurentiis is fucking hot.
which brings me to my second point; if we as a culture are to defend and preserve our basic right to freedom (and for chrissake, don't mistake my definition of freedom as the 'let-the-eagle-soar' freedom, mine is the 'real freedom is responsibility' species), we need to appeal to the most universal and powerful of all human elements: fucking. we all know rick santorum goes home and jerks off to little league (again, it's his business what he does in the privacy of his own home... none of my business a'tall), and most southern, ultraconservatives make their underage, african-american mistresses call them 'Stonewall,' so it appears obvious to me that the most widespread, universal, and dare i say unifying activity is good, solid, american fucking.
uh-huh. let's use that, shall we?
do something positive america! find someone you care about and bang away! stop yer hatin' and start yer lovin'
i consider it to be your most important civic duty.
and another thing: get your goddamn hands off my NPR, motherfuckers.
that is all.
7.03.2005
HAPPY BIRTHDAY AMERICA!!!
happy july 4 everyone- i'm hosting a little get-together with some good 'ol fellows in our neighborhood brewhaus, and things are shaping up pretty nicely. "Big Ben" Franklin is over in the corner booth working the "care to cast your gaze on my elder statesman" line on some comely bar lasses, Jefferson and Washington are sampling some Mr. Vernon homegrown (good for George's glaucoma and various other ailments), and Thomas "Tutone" Paine is arguing over his unalienable right to another drink, goddamnit, because it was god's will that bestowed these sacred jager shots upon all men. Hamilton steps up and puts Tommy's drink on his tab and, now that he thinks about it, let's put another round of drinks for the house on his tab... figures it'll bring them all together. Betsy Ross walks in, a little unsure of herself among the 'richies' in her handmade pink dress, but damned if she doesn't catch 'ol "lets go shoot some trap" Hancock's attention.
all in all a pretty good day to quit paying taxes to the crown....
happy birthday america!
7.01.2005
RECKLESS...
dude. you get your own special post tonight... huzzah!
don't you find it odd when you're listening to joy division and you find some song you haven't heard since middleschool and you're all, like, this song's really groovy- i'm really getting into it... nice mellow melody, ian curtis' voice isn't too modulated, etc..
then you look up the lyrics and they're all:
A nervous bride for your eyes
A fractured smile that soon dies
A love that's wrong from your life and soul
A savage mine had begun
Hello, farewell to your love and soul
Hello, farewell to your soul
and then you're all, like, wow- now i know why he killed himself to a kraftwerk album.
6.30.2005
SIM-MY-APARTMENT
(note: the author is drunk as an irish priest and listening to New Order again... how charming!)
i live in an incredibly dense collection of triple-decker apartments, and my neighbors' lives are quite available for inspection if one has the time and opportunity. tonight i went to brush my teeth and, feeling no need to turn on the bathroom lights, stood in the dark staring out the window weaving ever-so-slightly back and forth with the gentle rhythm of the toothbrushing. some subtle movement caught my eye, and i noticed a young woman in the apartment across the alley washing the evening's dishes in her kitchen. like a young kid marveling over the toil of ants in his toy farm, i found myself enthralled with this everyday task this woman performed. before you rush to judgment, like, 'oh he's so creepy and illegal' and all that, think about how stupid-yet-multi-million-dollar-lucrative that goddamn Sim series is.... i mean, for fuck sake, how many people watch reality shows in this fantabulous country?
anyway, i think maybe i should have gotten excited over the whole voyeuristic experience, but instead i came to the conclusion that watching someone wash dishes is just slightly less interesting than actually washing those very same dirty dishes. in short, i think we all should start doing interesting things in the privacy of our own homes on the off chance that at some point, some lucky bastard will catch us in the act.
might as well give 'em a thrill, eh?
or maybe my expectations are violently skewed by porn.... will have to think about that one.
6.29.2005
EARLY MORNING LITERATURE
i haven't engaged the realpolitik lately, but the most ubiquitous source of political discourse in my universe is ratty, somewhat current bumperstickers. i have time to read them as i stew and clench my teeth and white-knuckle the steering wheel and curse the miserable bitch of a mother that brought that frail, frightened, brain-damaged, little mushroom of a man into this world just so he could obtain a driver's license, grow up awkwardly, work a miserable job to afford that oh-so-special car that he's always wanted and basically park it in the left lane, making no effort to even inch that goddamn jumble of steel into the space between the concrete islands in the road (wider than the mighty euphrates, i might add). god forbid he'd think to alert me to his left turn... if only that particular car manufacturer would invent some manner of signaling device... hmmmm....
that's not even the point of the story. the point is i was tired and cranky and hot... and some awful, awful woman drove with me neck and neck the whole way with celine dion blaring out the windows of her jetta. (celine dion! i didn't know these people even existed!). on the other hand, my physician suggested i ignore these people and their terrible burden on society and learn to let go, so when one of my desperate flock sat stranded in the left lane with her right turn-signal blinking away while one by one us nasty commuters failed to let her into the right lane, i waved her in.
she did not give me the thank-you wave. i considered leaving my vehicle to kill her.
what kind of person would forego the thank-you wave, thought i, but luckily her entire political agenda was plastered on the back of her car to fill in any gaps in the profile i had constructed for her in my mind. amidst the aging 'bush-cheney '04' sticker and the clever 'first iraq, then france' sticker spread a myriad of 'conservative' jingoism, as if she were trying to prove a point: nope! not an original thought in my head, but i dooooo think gays are icky! thanks for asking! more iced tea?
good for her, i thought. there's a woman who's not afraid to use magnetic poetry to express an opinion.
at least it was something to read while i sat in traffic.
one that i remember distinctly read: LIBERALISM: the terrible sinking feeling that somewhere.... people can take care of themselves. odd... so was the issue one of conservatives allowing people to run their own lives without intervention or an excessive burden of arbitrarily enforced rules? i was confused. thankfully it was positioned directly above a picture of george washington, thomas jefferson and john adams with the words, right-wing extremists written underneath in red, white, and blue.
i felt my hands tighten around the tire-iron. it took a surprisingly large portion of my strength to not step out of the car please, sir, tap-tap-tap the iron on her hollow forehead and ask, "wouldn't you find anti-imperialist sentiment in colonial america (tap, tap, tap), especially anti-establishment armament and outright conflict against the crown, a little left-wing, eh? (tap, tap, tap), wouldn'tcha? (tap, tap, tap)..."
but i wouldn't want to destroy the fragile little bubble protecting her car from intelligent thought.
it helped filter out the celine dion.
PERSPECTIVE
i've been listening to a lot of problems lately and i've come to one very tender revelation about myself:
no matter what happens in my life, nothing will seem even remotely significant when weighed against a really spectacular set of breasts.
goodnight.
6.27.2005
NUNITY
it's so god awful hot in boston tonight, the only appropriate outfit is stark-raving naked. i hope all creatures, great and small, are sitting around their cramped, overpriced apartments in my cozy, little city with not a speck of clothing on their backs. we can all rejoice in this comforting thought... i call it 'nunity'.
and don't you think kid rock and nicole richie look strangely alike? weird.
christ, it's too hot today....
also, if you misspell the word 'rejoice' as 'rejoyce' it becomes 'to joyce again.' try and use it in a sentence tomorrow.
CULTASTIC-O!!
now, i'm not one to dictate how other people should behave in polite society, nor do i feel i have a particularly strong grasp of PR, specifically as it applies to the film industry and talent management, but i will say this:
she's your sister, Tom, but fire that fucking knobgobblin for letting you say such idiotic things in public.
we've had a great ride together, haven't we tom? i was up there with you in that 4-G negative dive giving the bird to those anonymously evil russians in that MIG 28. i was with you in that courtroom and no... no, i couldn't handle the truth, no sir i could not. i stood with you, defiantly, when that dirty, old bastard paul newman threatened to take away your magnificent Meucci pool cue. i watched you bang rebecca de mornay, elizabeth shue, and nicole kidman... what happened?
you fired your old publicist because you wanted to get all scientology on us... now you're all up in matt lauer's grill over the history of psychology? for shame. matt lauer, for pete's sake. did anyone else picture the two of them on some scaffold in the air, matt lauer's hand is about to get sliced off, tom's wearing black flowing robes and he's standing above matt, threatening him with a clenched fist, and he says:
"you don't.... know.... the powwwwwer, of the daaaaark side"
i felt the same way when i found out mel gibson's all religious because his dad's a holocaust denier.
couldn't you just be content to eat vanilla ice cream off katie holmes' ass? i know i would.
6.21.2005
VIVA LA HASIDIM!!
i was going to just go on and on about how upset i am over the possible 23% cut in funding for the Corporation for Public Broadcasting and how newt gingrich can kiss the fattest part of my white ass for his attempt to 'zero out' federal money for PBS and NPR in 1994 and how proud i am of everyone who wrote to their state reps and raised a substantial uproar against his attempt to mortally wound the highest quality news and educational television source in this here big beautiful country of ours and how 'can you fucking believe that your kids might miss out on sesame street and mr. rogers' neighborhood?!'....
but you all know how shitty that is, so i won't rehash it. what i will do is encourage all of you who vote in wisconsin to write rep. obey and tell him what a good job he's doing. you're my dog, obey.
so instead of getting all worked up about things, i'll send you here. this guy is fucking unbelievable.
6.17.2005
THE BIRTH OF THE BASSMASTER LEGEND
i wrote the following to commemorate this momentous occasion, but also in memoriam to the last time i went fishing. it appeared in a public forum not too long ago, so it's missing my trademark potty-mouth ("YouHandsomeDevil, where good taste comes to die!"), but it appears i'm still banging Semicolon's wife. i'm such a semicolon whore....
a lot of this is reference to inside jokes and shit, so just pretend like it's fucking hilarious.
Most of what you are about to read is true – only time will reveal which parts are fact and which will become legend. the names have been (awkwardly) changed to protect the (laughably!) innocent.
The Bass is a feared and terrible creature, not to be trifled with on this earth…
We hunt him, rather we hunt each other, the Bass and I, and the Bass does not rest. Hence we do not rest. We start early, before sunrise, to catch him off guard.
Our crew is a gnarled, seasoned assortment. Waters has hunted Bass his entire life and patrolled these icy waters since his release from government service. We know better than to inquire about this last point; some things are better left unknown. Waters has lost three limbs to the Bass, and today his stoic countenance betrays the true depth of his vendetta… a vendetta that is neither drawn against enemy nor friend… simply ‘opponent.’
Colton carries with him a lifetime of open water experience. He cut his teeth training America’s Cup skippers in the warm Pacific waters while secretly organizing the single most successful rum smuggling racket in the Caribbean Sea since British colonial rule in the Americas. Colton’s strength is speed, pure speed, and in light of the scars our vessel has accrued over its war-hearty generation, his experience is invaluable.
And the madman, the hunter, I. I’ve spent countless nights surrounded by the most criminal of lunatics, and countless days unraveling their twisted thoughts and scribblings. Though the psychological effects of this obsession are beginning to wear away at my nerves, I’ve developed a nearly clairvoyant understanding of the irrational mind. Though armed with a razor-sharp intellect, to conquer the mad I must descend into madness. On this excursion, our only chance of success is to embrace this skill with absolute certainty.
The night before the expedition, it’s discovered that a number of stress fractures have developed in the hull of our craft that threaten to rip the engine from the boat. The damage is extensive, enough to make the most hardened Arctic crab fisherman turn tail and run, but Waters is unshaken. He snarls, eyeing the possible disaster, then laughs. He is Ahab. Nothing will stop him from excising these demons on this day. He lights a torch from a smoldering ember of the previous night’s cooking fire and daftly welds bracings to the engine and transom. “She’ll hold,” he says with satisfaction, nodding and contemplating his handiwork, “she’ll hold.”
I bid farewell to our long-toothed sea dog, and we shove off under the cover of fog in the morning twilight.
The water is deceptively quiet this morning; like glass. We, like the water, are tranquil and silent, contemplating the long day ahead as we cross into the horizon. Soon we will reach the international zone off the coast of Canada where the only law is piracy and the risks men take for glory are paid… often in flesh.
The boat coasts to a gentle rest, and the motor settles to a hum and stops. Without a word we gear up and cast our lines into the deep and continue on until the only sounds that break the stillness are the pointed whisks of fishpoles. Waters listens intently to the vibrations on his line; he senses something different about the rhythmic pulse of electrons as they dance in and out of phase, as if sensing the brainwave connection between fish and line and man…. Some creature in the deep stalks its prey…
Waters closes his eyes, tuning into the scene unfolding beneath the waves, as the monster edges closer to the bait, unable to resist its hypnotic twitching. With a flash, the monster snatches the twitching lure and turns to escape with its dinner, but Waters has anticipated the creature’s every intention and is ready with his own counterattack. He sets his teeth in a grisly smirk, wheels back, and throws his rod backward like a lightning bolt… or at least it seemes so when black thunderheads roll in and electricity shoots from the sky in tandem with the strike from the Bass.
Fish do not feel pain when hooked, but instinct drives them to run, and run he did. The Bass’s flight against Waters’ line drew the full weight of the boat along the shoreline, and every thrash the fish made drew lightning bolts out of the sky, as the driving wind hurled icy rain at our crew.
When it was over, the clouds broke open and sunshine poured over the triumphant captain. He held his adversary up to the light in glory with no malice in his heart. Both man and beast had fought well that day.
Waters whispered some ancient words to the Bass, patted him on the head and set him free. The fish looked back and seemed to pause in respect to his own opponent, a man who he had met before and was likely to meet again. Then he swam away.
But not before taking Waters’s thumb with him…
Waters laughed, he had lost limbs in such skirmishes, and a thumb seemed an easy price to pay for such an encounter. Colton did not agree. He dove in after the fish, caught him by the tail and hurled the beast back into the boat. The Bass knew Colton had broken the sacred trust between man and fish, but Colton’s intentions were clear to everyone, and the fish began to understand. Screaming at the Bass to return the stolen digit, Colton searched its gullet for the missing thumb.
The fish spat Waters’s thumb onto the deck, shook free and plunged back into the water, making no effort to acknowledge his captor this time. Colton, with eyes ablaze, stood at the bow waving the thumb to the sky, and with dark, menacing clouds gathering behind him boomed, “I am Colton, Bass! Remember my name for you shall hear it again! Do you hear me, Bass!? I am Colton! COOOOOOOOLTON!!”
No one said a word for many hours, but we all knew that on this day a new BassMaster had been born.
