Morning Warm-Ups, Not Fit for Public Consumption , , , , , , , 2 Comments

Break on Through

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Readability Index: Unreadable

Fuck all that dumb shit. I’m going to beat this shit god damn it! I’m bout to get crazy on this motherfucker. Just type some shit out fast as I can like a hedonistic rabbit out this shit. You know fuck it I just drank some wine and I don’t know what that signifies. Ah christ these stupid ass commercials on Pandora. Fucking dumb dumb dumb. And I hate this station too.

Har mother trundle cuddle brother asunder wonder kinder hinder

Yeah we been drinking this wine like three days straight so it’s really oxidized now and I’m trying to figure out what that means, what that does to the taste.

There’s a big frontier now and it’s wine knowledge. It’s on the horizon, coming down like Moses across the Jordan. AKA the Red Sea. Yeah I made a joke about the River Jordan today to one of the customers and that shit when over…nicely.

Hot damn. Shit.

Nah I’m just not feeling it.

But I am typing faster. And I did 40 pushups. So that’s good.

I was thinking that knowing about wine is to be good at it you have to do what you do to be good at chess. The best indicator of whether someone will be good at chess is not how high their IQ is, but how many chess games they have memorized, how many chess positions they can recognize. Success in chess does not necessarily carry over into other things in life, not even things so close as other strategical game. The knowledge of chess is extremely specialized, by that I mean that…well it’s a self serving loop of sorts. Man I’m not thinking about any of this, and any of the salient points were actually made in a book called The Genius in All of Us. So take this with a grain of salt. But I’m thinking I could get good at wine by just memorizing all the vineyards and their characteristics, like a chess master memorizing positions.

There’s a book I’m going to read called Liquid Memory that talks about taste, and how one develops one’s own taste. And not just the taste of the mouth. But it talks about trusting your own taste, instead of some arbiter’s. you have to be educated about the subject you want to have an opinion on, but you should have an opinion of it if you want to have taste. None of this makes the sense I want it to.

Hot damn I am so tired. I am so tired and boring right now. None of this shit makes any sense at all. I think I’ll just go around and comment on other people’s stuff. Maybe tomorrow I will have something to say to myself.

Journal Type Shits, Not Fit for Public Consumption, Uncategorized Leave a comment

Today Took a Long Time

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Readability Index: Unreadable

I am tired. I’m seriously about to fall asleep. I could if I wanted to. I just took a shower. There were so many things I wanted to write about all day, but I could not.

I didn’t get out of work until after four and then I had to pick up my girlfriend and go grocery shopping. Grocery shopping is the worst. And then I…well I forgot what I was going to say next because GF started talking and talking and talking and now…

Like I said I can feel my eyes closing. I remember not too long ago when I would be writing and then I would fall asleep.

When I got home I had to make dinner because GF had eaten all this meat at school and didn’t want anything, even though I had planned to make hamburgers, perfect timing there.

I felt so inspired to write, too, earlier today. Not now, not now it is all gone.

My fingers are like lead on these keys. My eyes are like lead on these cheeks.

Well, at least I have tomorrow morning before I go to work. Three hours or something like that.

I guess I’ll run through what happened today just for the sake of recording that shit like a ship’s log.

Had my biggest lunch so far with mad cocktails and crazy custies all over the bar.

Tried to use a band aid to keep citrus juice out of my cut that won’t heal, fell off and shit got burned into that shit all day.

Met Dan and Martha of Pretty Things Brewery, did a tasting with them. Wrote a note in my book to write about the experience later. Don’t feel like it at all. It says “Art as transient as life.” It’s sitting on the bar in the restaurant because I forgot it there.

Was suppose to do the grocery list and make the dinner tonight, which I never do, but GF made other plans without telling me. Was pissed she had to wait in the rain for me to show up.

Didn’t eat anything because was rushing around trying to pick her up.

Oh fuck. This is the boringest post ever.

Boring boring boring.

Enough of this bullshit.

Nighttime Cool Downs, Not Fit for Public Consumption , , , , , , , , , 3 Comments

And We Would Cook a Corn Meal Porridge

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Readability Index: Weak

Well, shit.

It is almost one AM. It’s funny how some people say, “It’s 1 AM in the morning.” I’ve never done it before, but one day, by God, I’m going to say, “Yeah by that time it was like 2 AM in the night.” I bet no one will think anything of it. Because it makes total sense to me.

Well, but shit.

This is to be my wind down post before going to bed.

God I love hitting that publish button so much. All the words blocked off in their appropriate fences with pretty blue titles. And all the ways to keep track of them. To catalogue them. I love cataloguing. I could totally dig a job where I just fixed people’s iTunes libraries. I love databases, especially the ones with no point whatsoever. Of course those kinds of databases don’t exist.

I love the Mad Hatter.

Yes, but I am trying to wind down, and unlike this morning, well I just can’t stop my fingers. They are moving so fast and with such precision that it almost hurts to watch. God. How did I get born with fingers that work? Jesus Christ. What if my fingers were cut off in a freak trolley incident? What a bitch that would be. What difficulties that would present.

I am so god damned perfect. Like a machine. Like a sad machine. Like a god damned ecstatic James Brown SEX MACHINE!

Well but shit. It is imperative that I calm down now so that I can go to bed. So that I can wash those god damn dishes that led to this beautiful coconut muffin that my super hot girlfriend just made.

She is so super hot that I am afraid of time. I am afraid that she will get older and so will I. I will have saggy balls. What a bitch. She is so super hot that I just want to jump into a drying tub of amber with her and die like that French movie called…The Game. But in French.

But for now. We are both so perfect. No diseases. Ten fingers. What a couple of assholes we are.

Hoo.

Shit. The dishes. The dishes. I think…no, I know that that is what life is REALLY ABOUT. Life is really about doing the dishes. I’ve said it before. I’ll say it again and again. Because I feel that it is true, and I know that I know why, but I can’t articulate it, even to myself. I know that life is about doing the dishes, but I don’t know why I know that.

But that’s neither here nor there, as my friend would say who has gone to Afghanistan for a year and we parted on bad terms. Isn’t that a bitch. We have been friends since High School. We have been so cool together and now he is seconds away from dying and we don’t even like each other.

Yes, but as another friend wisely told me in a funny voice, “Friendship is a long and bumpy road.” Yes. Yesssss.

Well. Shit.

These muffins are delicious. And I never expected to be given the gift of sitting here for two or three hours after work just doing my own thang.

The truth is if it weren’t for my girlfriend I would have no structure in my life whatsoever. I would probably be watching Marley the Bob Marley documentary right now and blogging about it. And I would do that for about three hours and love the hell out of it and not eat a god damn thing. Then I would watch some porn and then I would blog some more and then the sun would come up and I would have not eaten or drank or took my coat off. There are many bloggers out there who come to this and find it a pleasurable state. I do, too, until later when I look back, like when I’m at work and I think if I got anything done that day, then I am not happy about it. So God only knows what the fuck is going on. But my girl makes me go to bed and wake up in the morning and eat and wash the goddamn dishes. And take showers. Trust me I’d be the dirtiest mother fucker alive. I love taking showers once I’m in the shower but I hate undressing and getting in there.

Showers are just about the most luxurious fucking thing anybody could ever do. And millions of “poor” Americans take showers every day. We are rich as a bitch over here! Showers feel fucking great. God damn I am an American! How did this shit happen. In France I had to shower in cold water and it sucked sucked sucked. I have taken many cold showers on the advice of Tim Ferriss and the venerable General George Patton, but those were for a purpose. Hot showers…man they are one big fuck you to the Earth, but I can’t stay away. Yes I know. I’m a terrible Earthling.

Ah, but fuck I will talk about that some other time. I can’t even be bothered to stop typing long enough to pick up that goddamn muffin! Yum so good. Oh god it’s warm and good. It’s so goooood o fuck. Jesus.

What the shit am I doing with my life! Christ in heaven and blazing angels pissing on Willie Nelson this muffin is good!

Yes, so now to do the dishes.

There is so much more to talk about. I can go without sleep. And I totally would. But y girlfriend’s home and the mother fucking hammer is down.

Tomorrow I work early in the morning and she is not going on a field trip so we may be just talking and laughing the early hours away. AKA staying stone cold the fuck asleep because we stayed up until two AM in the night.

So I’ll just be reading Ruth Reichl on the bus and itching to get back here around 4 PM and type my ass off.

Right now…the dishes.

Existential Something or Other Zen Type Shit, Not Fit for Public Consumption , , , , , , , , , 1 Comment

Breath(e)

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Readability Index: Strangely Readable

Well. That story didn’t look as intense as I thought it would. For some reason while I was writing it I was getting really hyped up about the whole thing. I feel that I have failed to convey my outrage.

Nevertheless, I am breathing now. And I will forget the man who interrupted me, and remember the man who is my brother, who has a little girl and a wife, and likes to eat food while drinking grapefruit juice, and the man who is an amalgation of starstuff, as Carl Sagan would say, and the man who is a thousand worlds, as Neil Gaiman might say.

Yes. I am at one with the universe, which is myself, and therefore how could I ever be not that. If I could be at two with the universe. Or at odds.

But I am not either of those.

I am one and so are you. We are two. Who are one. With the interrupting man.

And my girlfriend, who keeps interrupting my thoughts while she makes muffins. It is 12:42 at night and we are about to eat some fresh muffins. Got to love that!

“Want to listen to French music?” she asks.

She. Is. Crazy.

And there is a shit ton of dishes to do.

And she is interrupting my thinking!

Ahck.

Nope, just going to breath(e) while the weird French music plays.

I love her. She is myself. And I am obsessed with her (myself).

I am obsessed. With myself.

And the muffins need more time.

Just going to breathe…breathe in the nature of the universe and breathe out the nature of God. Count the name of God aloud and…sink into the depths of love and brother feeling.

And sister feeling.

Sounds like a couple of things one might get in trouble for.

I am so calm and smooth like limestone from the Haut Cotes de Beaune. I am so smooth like worn limestone. I can feel Michelangelo shaping my left toe. And it is so cold that I am the cold and the hot and the candle on the table. I am the shirt that I am wearing. And more importantly, the shirt is me. And I am obsessed with this shirt.

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Hot Damn My Feet Are Cold As Ice (The Interruption Story)

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Readability Index: Readable

You know I realized something while at work today, one really great thing about blogging is that no one fucking interrupts you. They just can’t do it. They can distract you if they comment on a previous post or like it and that star comes up. But they can’t interrupt. Which is great. Because I feel like I get interrupted all the god damn time. It’s annoying as hell.

For instance, today at the bar.

This dude comes in, he’s a salesmen that sells us liquor and shit, and I met him once before and can tell he’s just a smooth operator. And we exchanged names and a handshake and a howdy do and I haven’t seen him in a month. But he rolled in today and I knew I knew his name but I couldn’t remember it. Well he didn’t give a good god damn about that, just called me man and I was happy to do the same. Even when I remember people’s names I usually just call them man. Or yo.

Well I could see he wasn’t in a mood to talk and that was damn fine with me because I didn’t have any idea what to say to him.

And hot damn! My feet really are cold! Wish I had a Labrador Retriever to retrieve my slippers.

Well, I just went on about my business and then all the sudden he got his food and he wanted to start talking. So I drug my ass over there and said “Oh what’s up man.” And he said in a philosophical manner, “Can I have more ketchup?”

And you have to understand about the ketchup, it’s house made and they serve it in these what’s a call it’s and they only fill it about a quarter way up so you get enough to cover the top of four french fries. I may be revealing too much about where I work here because probably anyone who has seen these little fuckers…what do you call them…filled a quarter way with ketchup well that’s something you won’t forget.

So to get on with the get down, I knew what the hell was going on here. I was hip to the mother fucker’s jive in a way. I felt we connected on a personal level.

Myself me, I don’t even like that house-made bullshit. I like Heinz got damn it, probably because I read this review in a newspaper about house-made ketchup that said that shit was not worth doing since Heinz is the only ketchup that delivers a hit to each of the four sensations you can taste – sweet salty and bullshit bullshit whatever the others are. So I’m damn well mystified by these little…what the hell are they called…filled a little bit up with this strange version of ketchup that no one even wants. Okay, a lot of people really love it. But anyway.

So I’m happy go lucky as a mother fucker running over to the line and getting some extra ketchups. I grab one and I think shit man, this ain’t enough, so I go back and grab two. And I feel like I pretty muched hooked a brother up by the time I get back there. But our man the salesmen couldn’t give two shits I would soon learn.

I said, “Here man, I got you the double double.”

“Thanks,” he said and kept eating like a lonesome Rotweiller. Shit even WordPress doesn’t know how to correct that spelling of Rotweiller. But you get the point…perhaps.

Well I was ready to walk away and call it a day. But here this mother fucker, and got damn this story is going on forever, here he goes and says, “How come they only put a little bit?”

Well darn my socks I was happy as a lark.

Wait, now I got a recommended link for Rotweiller. So what the fuck am I spelling it right or not? Ah fuck it.

So I launch into this campaign of commiseration. I say “well shit man I been trying to figure that out myself! First of all…”

“You guys got any grapefruit juice?”

“…”

“…”

“…what?”

“Grapefruit juice?”

“Yeah. Yeah we…sure man no problem.”

Man that shit done fucked up the next five minutes I couldn’t believe it. And now that I spent twenty minutes writing about that shit, I really hate that mother fucker! Argh! He’s got kids too, the crazy son of a bitch. I’m a straight up go to his house, find his kid and smooth interrupt her when she’s telling a story.

Nah I’m just kidding about that. I’m sure she’s cute.

But shit! This mother fucker damn well knew we had grapefruit juice too because he sells the shit to us!

So yeah, I’ve always hated being interrupted. I hate when people don’t listen to me. I mean, especially because I don’t talk anywhere near as much as I write. I’m a quiet dude. If someone asks me a question, I’ll answer. And you’re going to damn well interrupt while I’m answering your question! Hoo shit!

First time I ever got amped on this blog so…well I’ll just publish this and take a deep breathe. Breath? Rotweiller.

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I Could Sleep for Ages

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Readability Index: Weak

Sometimes I have trouble falling asleep, but I never have trouble staying asleep. If my girlfriend didn’t wake me up, I’d sleep till two or three and I’d only get up then because I felt guilty.

But here I am, up early than a motherfucker, well, it was early when I originally got up at 7:30, and already jumping on the blog. Jumping on this shit like it’s an emergency.

My girl’s out the door on the way to her first culinary school field trip.

Looks like today, the sixth day of this blogs existence, I’ve already broken my personal best record for number of unique visitors. And we’re starting to get some traffic from places outside the US, which is super fucking cool.

I originally thought, all those six days ago, that I was going to use the blog mostly for recording my thoughts. I guess I have, but I just had no idea that most all of my thoughts would be about blogging.

I had a couple dreams. One was I was on a bus with some prisoners and they were planning an escape and I didn’t know what the fuck to do. I couldn’t figure out if I was a prisoner, a ghost, a cop… And the other one there was some big jewelry craft fair right at the top of the subway station and they wouldn’t let me get to work.

I had some coffee. I put brown sugar in it. Now I’m shaking.

That could be a poem right there

Cup of canned coffee

And some brown sugar

Shaking like a bean

Atop a Washing Machine

There you go.

But nah washing machine doesn’t have shit to do with anything. What else shakes. Atop a shaking machine. Atop a bacon machine.

There’s a bus in 33 minutes and another one in 53 minutes. I should take the 33 but…I want to just sit here.

Usually I jump into things pretty forcefully and then leave just as quickly. On that kind of timeline I guess I’ll be done with blogging pretty soon. My interest just wanes with everything eventually. Except of course my girlfriend and sleeping. And eating.

But before I go I do want to write something meaningful. Like how to make vodka taste like an orange julius. Or some kind of news article or something. I think I should probably write a non-fiction book.

I feel like I’m really having trouble getting the flow going this morning. I think it has something to do with the knowledge that I have to leave soon anyway, so I can’t keep it rolling. If I want to really get into a rollicking good time I have to know that I can stay with it for an inordinate amount of time.

Easy Skanking

Easy Skanking

Little Bit Easier

Excuse me while I light my spliff

Oh God I got to take a lift

From reality ya just can’t drift

That’s why I’m stickin with this riff

That reminded me of something while I was typing it. Oh yeah tags. It looks like when I tagged “WordPress” on my post “The End of the Day,” that created some kind of portal for some new people to arrive here. Or was it when I linked it…no it was a tag. None of my other tags have had that effect. Kind of cool.

This link suggestion tool is constantly trying to get me to connect to Rotten Tomatoes. I want to help them out with their promotional links and all, but I’m not going to link Oh God to whatever movie that corresponds to.

My whole life is the Party of Special Things To Do.

 

Analysis, Has a Funny Part at the End About Smallpox Blankets, Not Fit for Public Consumption, Random Bullshit , , , , , , , , , , 1 Comment

The End of the Day

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Readability Index: Not Terrible If You’ve Got Time to Kill

That’s what it is. And so we have come to this. And so I have come to this.

Man, shit, I just got all caught up in reading a shit ton of blogs. I do it because I like reading other blogs. But also because I want people to come on here and read my dumb shit and like that shit. It’s funny because my girlfriend was just talking about how she gets high off people liking her pics on instagram.

Man it’s crazy as shit. I’m reading all these blogs, all up in these people’s brains like it’s Being John Malkovich in here. It’s pretty crazy because back in the day just a few months or years ago I wouldn’t read anything but the classic novels. I wouldn’t watch TV or anything. I just wanted to read things that stood the test of time, that were respectable, and respected. I thought that way I wouldn’t waste time winnowing through the endless stream of bullshit that’s out there. And now here I am, no longer concerned with winnowing even my own thoughts, just straight wallowing in bullshit. But you know, it’s not even bullshit out here. These swamps are filled with gold. I mean, people say the craziest shit. And everybody’s trying to figure shit out. People typing their hearts out here. A lot of it doesn’t boggle the mind when you read it. A lot of it doesn’t bear rereading. But almost all of it is worth reading once. It’s not like a stream of youTube comments out here.

I always tried to think of myself as a gifted writer. As a serious writer. I wanted only to write a novel. But now I don’t even know how I came to that conclusion. Or rather I know exactly how. It just sounded lie the right thing to do. Sounds nice. Novelist. Sounds like what you should do if you can write. A novel is just a respectable thing. All the way up until beyond my junior year of college, when I found myself in an advanced fiction writing workshop based around short fiction, I didn’t even know what a short story was. I thought it was a novel that had less words. Man, shit, you can just roll up on the blogosphere and start typing the dumbest shit and somebody’s going to read that shit, even just because you read their shit that they might didn’t think was worth nobody reading it. And what else is needed then? Should you have changed their life? Did you fail if you didn’t? Fuck if I know. Like I’m always saying, motherfucking sun’s bout to explode all over all our asses anyway so might as well get your kicks. Yeah I say that every five minutes, I’d say it more often but it takes about five minutes to say.

It’s crazy too because you can look around and pick out what people are good at. You can say, damn I wish I was funny as that girl, or attractive as that one, or I wish I had a shit ton of awesome pictures to post every five minutes and a service to offer, I wish I had mad insights like that dude or I wish I had the drive to spend a lot of time researching and putting together a kick ass factual jam like that dude. And everybody knows what you’re supposed to be doing is doing you, but that shit is never illustrated like it is here. Here it’s like you can find twenty-five real live motherfuckers failing miserably at doing what they think they should be doing, but succeeding at doing some kind of other thing. I don’t know. That shit is nonsensical but it makes sense to me. It’s weird because you know most people aren’t going to keep posting, just like most people aren’t going to keep doing anything besides breathing eating and going to the job that has a good health plan and doesn’t totally suck all the time. Most people that can post anyway. People that can’t even post like some cart runners in India they ain’t even half concerned with expressing themselves to the global community. Mother fuckers live in shantytowns with all the friends they care about impressing. And that’s what it comes down to, the idea of the over used word ‘community.’ Because really we’ve lost the real community, the extended family, the place where everybody knows your name and that your little sister had three abortions and is sleeping with the town mayor. And instead we have friends in cities thousands of miles away. We text a mother fucker who’s next door to ask for some salt. Just leave it outside the door thanks. And god damn, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Unless I could have free alcohol. Give me unlimited rye whiskey and a long wooden table and a bunch of people I know entirely too much about and I’ll be alright. But these kinds of perfect situations don’t exist even in the times of the past. Someone was always charging for  the whiskey, and the people all betrayed each other in horrendous ways, and they all died when flu season came around. And they killed all the Indians with smallpox blankets. And they burned homosexuals. Yeah it’s probably better that we’re all safe in our homes. Eating dope ass chicken salad and listening to music that’s made in little boxes with little boxes that have lights on them, burning a candle on the table to remind of us of the primeval fires we had to gather around so as not to get eaten by something bigger than us, and brushing our teeth with something probably made by a twelve pound pygmy getting paid a dollar a century. It’s a good life if you can get it. And this blogging shit, well, shit dude. How fucking great does it get. You can put your own head inside of a box and have people look at it and give you thumbs up. And you never once have to see them. And they can’t talk behind your back, because the little box is always in front of you.

Man this blogging shit is so crazy. I don’t even know what’s going on.

And my little WordPress comment indicator is lighting up so I’m going to just go ahead and push my favorite button and find out who the fuck wants to connect now.

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Things I Just Ate

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Yeah that’s how it’s going down around here. I don’t give a fuck to the point that I’m actually going to publish what I just ate. Millions of people do it every day. Take pictures of it. Blow it up on instagram. And that wild bastard, Matthew Inman, harpoons they’re stupid asses with dead on scalding satire straight a la Jonny Swift style. Man, I’m losing it. But yeah, The Oatmeal…oh shit my girlfriend just put on my old jam: Look What You’ve Done, by Jet. It’s got the John Lennon piano going and it’s repetitious. I love repetition. Anyway…The Oatmeal is the best thing going.

So for dinner, we just got up and started making some shit, just like we do this kind of thing every damn day. She brought home a whole damn chicken from school and I just ripped that shit up with my fingers and made some mayonnaise out of eggs and safflower oil. She threw some Trader Joe’s bread in the oven with some cheese on that shit and made a big salad with almonds and red peppers and Gorgonzola. Hot damn that shit was so good. I put the chicken salad on top of the salad. God damn. I don’t usually like to talk about food but that shit was banging! And we ate here at the table where we are both working, which is the highest high a mother fucker can get around here. Got damn, got my laundry too, and folded all that shit up and put it all over the table. We got dirty dishes up on this bitch, too. We’re just fucking splayed out.

So that’s what I ate for dinner. Hell yeah that shit was good. And I bought some Caramel Cone Haagan Dazs from the store today too so we’re going to eat that shit later. Then we’re going to wake up early and she has to read more and then go to school early so I’m just going to write my ass of then, too. I should write about some cocktails or something, shit. Plus I just got a new book on the Philippines. Two of them in fact and they look really bad. I’m thinking of rewriting one of them and selling it. I always think about writing some educational type shit in a more engaging style, but I haven’t tried it yet.

Other Minds , , , , 4 Comments

Time Marches On

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I wasn’t thinking of it when I typed the title but now I’m thinking of “For Whom the Bell Tolls” by Metallica. Awesome song, shit it’s been a long time since I listened to anything by Metallica. I remember taking a survey in school, what’s your favorite band? the popular kid asked me. I was only allowed to listen to Christian Bands, and I knew I couldn’t say any of those, and this was before knowledge of obscure-ass bands was the cold hard currency of coolness. He suggested, Metallica? And of course I said, Hell yeah! And I didn’t hear my first Metallica song for another two years.

But shit, time does march on. I just found a super funny ass blog with a style that I like a lot, from a guy who also like Hunter S Thompson and quoting other people. Shit you can just about find anything in the blogosphere.

I don’t know where my friend Carmen went. Just disappeared all the sudden. Maybe computer problems.

Thanks to the new people liking my shit, I just got ten likes on this bitch! Things are happening around this place. I really don’t even know how. I really don’t. That’s my fucking catchphrase right there, or it might be if I’m not careful, and I’m nothing if not careful. Damn I wish I tried to be funny and succeeded.

Damn. Cup of Tia and UrbanWallArt are some heavy hitters up in this bitch, too. It’s crazy to have someone with mad followers like my blog post. Makes me angry that time is marching on like a mother fucker up in here. It’s already almost nine o’clock and my girlfriend is threatening to make some food when she’s done with this chapter, which means we’ll have to break up this fucking word fest. Ah but I love her. She’s so cray.

God damn a mother fucker just came down the stairs and picked up his delivery order. The shit sounded like they were old friends, too, but I never hear them getting delivery, so that dude just must be mad charismatical.

Well, I don’t have much to say. Just felt like publishing some more shit. Blogging is the craziest shit alive, I really don’t understand it.

Holy shit! My laundry has been sitting in the washer for like two hours straight! Holy fuck! Laundrageddon out this bitch.