Well, Shit

Readability Index: Weak

I haven’t started the god damn laundry yet. I guess that’s not a big deal, because normally I would have to work, and I think last Monday I…wait I just remembered I have to write down this story about a squirrel that died outside a few days ago…stayed in bed until like 12 or 2:15. I just received a mysterious text: “Under the silverware by the last well.” So I guess I’m not wasting all that much time. As if time was something one could waste. Damn and I haven’t called to cancel my Wells Fargo account…oh but then again I did try to do that, it’s just the deposit hasn’t cleared yet. Fuck it.

I did manage to read some new blogs and comment on some shit again. Commenting is fun than a mother fucker. Reaching out to other minds and shit. We’re all just minds in this bitch like it’s the matrix.

Ah Christ. It’s cold in the living room. I’m going outside and go to the library and shit like that to get some books about a different country. And some more coffee.

Had to start typing on my girlfriend’s computer because mine started acting crazy, displaying websites all fucked up.

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Reading About Jazz, Listening to Swing

Readabilty Index: Unreadable

This morning I woke up around 8:30. I had some kind of weird dream. Ah fuck I don’t really remember what it was. But at the time it was very vivid. I stood out in the kitchen just staring at shit for a while. I don’t know why. I didn’t know what to do. I always feel like I should be doing something important. But there’s nothing important to do.

Yesterday my girlfriend and I went down to the coast for our anniversary. We went to this Turkish coffee shop called Sofra. I got this orchid root drink that was too sweet and flowery for me. She liked it. She got a hazelnut latte that actually tasted like hazelnuts. I got an egg sandwich on bread that they made there. It was super light and flavorful. There’s got to be a better word than flavorful. Zesty. Nah. But fuck it. Then we drove to Newport and toured The Breakers. Then we went to lunch and had oysters and beer and chowder and a burger and talked about taking a trip to Europe instead of Asia. Then we drove around and went home. We were supposed to go out to eat but instead I got us some takeout from Bon Chon Chicken. It was delicious. And flavorful. So fucking flavorful. And we watched The Pirates! Band of Misfits (interesting quote from the Wikipedia article: “In January 2012, it was reported that the latest trailer of The Pirates! attracted some very negative reactions from the ‘leprosy community’.”). It was funny. I watched the end twice because she fell asleep halfway through. But then she fell asleep before the end again.

This morning I still had the Zipcar so I told her I’d take her to the train station before I dropped it off. Then I was going to go to the bank and then the library on the bus and get some more coffee, but once we got in the car I realized I had left my bag inside with the books I had to return and the cash I had to deposit, so I said fuck it. I came back here and started reading Blues People. I was looking for this other quote I’d seen and it didn’t take me too long to find it. Just about half an hour or…more like an hour I guess. I’m trying to just calm down and enjoy doing one thing instead of worrying about the things I’m not doing.

The quote was on page 199: “…the music by the mid-forties had also begun to get tagged with that famous disparagement art (meaning superfluous, rather than something that makes it seem important that you are a human being).”

It’s interesting because he’s talking about how the music was a way for black people to think and express themselves in a culture that wasn’t their own. Music was just something you did to get through. It was a necessary part of life. Whereas art is contrived. Or something. I guess in the 1940s the word ‘art’ had different connotations than it does today, because today it’s viewed positively. But I can still make a connection to my own life because I worry that what I’m doing isn’t art. But art, at least according to Kurt Vonnegut, is just something you should do to deal with life. In A Man Without a Country, one of my favorite books, it’s a book of essays about divers subjects, he says:

If you want to really hurt your parents, and you don’t have the nerve to be gay, the least you can do is go into the arts. I’m not kidding. The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable. Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven’s sake. Sing in the shower. Dance to the radio. Tell stories. Write a poem to a friend, even a lousy poem. Do it as well as you possibly can. You will get an enormous reward. You will have created something.

I think I’m definitely going to get in trouble for just quoting these books. Or at least I hope so. I just hope they don’t want any money, because I haven’t got it.

Ah shit speaking of that I was supposed to close my Wells Fargo account today before American Express tries to take some more money out of there and overdrafts the damn thing for the eighth time in two months.

But anyway. Why wasn’t I on here writing up a storm on Saturday? Well, shit, my girlfriend and I spent the morning together. Walking down to Oak Square and then back up to Treats bakery on Washington Street. Then I went to work and it was crazy. I missed the one bus, then I had to run up the street to catch a different bus, and it crossed the road just out of reach and I ran after it and it stopped at the next stop to pick up like five people. It was right in front of a stoplight that had been green for a while so I thought it would stop…hoped it would anyway. So I kept running in my thick boots and closed in…but that damn light didn’t change. And the bus went right through and then the light changed. So I walked the four miles to work. Ran the last mile because I was running out of time. Then we had a huge party and I made like four hundred bucks. But it was another one of those situations where people were getting drunk by the end and we were about to have to cut people off. Thankfully we were able to just close the bar at the appointed time and didn’t have to do that. It’s the one part of bartending that I really suck at. And then four of us got into a car and my friend took us all home, which was fucking suite.

Ah shit. But today I’m supposed to do the laundry too. Yesterday my fellow bartender texted me and asked me to cover for him today. I guess I pissed him off because I asked if he still needed me to cover for him…I guess it was because I texted him like ten hours after he texted me. Because I had my phone off all day because I had gotten like three straight calls from some bill collector. Oh that’s what my dream was about. My friend who went to Afghanistan came back and stayed with me and my mom at my childhood home, but he was still pissed at me but we were supposed to hang out a lot and I knew my girlfriend was not going to like it. Yeah.

So that’s what’s going on around this motherfucker today. Shit I better get to it.

Caffeine and Bartending

The last three days at work I’ve had a redeye and been really talkative for the first part of the evening. Being talkative is important at a bar. Normally I don’t like to talk at all. But you have to engage people at the bar or they feel like you’re snubbing them. And if you’re not snubbing them, they’ll think you’re just a bad bartender. And if you don’t like to talk you probably are.

So the caffeine was working out when I was working doubles, because I would get off at 8 or 9 and be good, starting to come down. Though I would still be up and frenetic for a little while afterwards. Last night I couldn’t hardly get to sleep because I was too excited thinking about what I was going to blog about today.

I’m supposed to take a shower before work. I didn’t take one last night, got home too late and said fuck it.

And last night I had a redeye but then I had to stay until 12 or so cleaning. That was one of the reasons I got it, figured it would be good energy for that. But in the beginning I felt like I was working against the caffeine, like in the beginning of the shifts I was wiping the shelves down and the mirrors behind the bottles and all of that shit, and it felt like it was becoming more and more difficult to work the more I was drinking the coffee. Which is pretty counterintuitive. But there it was.

Plus, I have to spend four dollars on that shit. Tonight I’m going to try it out just drinking the regular restaurant coffee again. It’s shit, and I’ve had some bad experiences with it. It’s strange to think that different kinds of coffee can give you different kinds of buzzes, but I find it’s true. I also find that mixing stuff in changes the effect of caffeine. I don’t know if this is placebo or what.

But yeah the four dollars is some real bullshit. Last night I made a lot of money in cash though. Shit tons of cash. Everyone was tipping cash and on guy tipped 80 dollars cash on like a fifty dollar tab. But none of this has anything to do with the caffeine.

I was talkative like a motherfucker and it was working out, but at some point in the night my eyes started watering and shit and I was like what the fuck is going on. Well, it wasn’t something I wasn’t used to because that kind of shit often happens to me. But I would prefer that it didn’t. Just stay clear headed to the end.

And the damndest thing about my job is I’m the slowest cleaner around, I guess, and I can’t seem to close the bar down fast, which is a desirable trait for a bartender. I mean I don’t give a good shit as long as I’m out of there before 1:20 so I can catch my bus and all, but the managers like to be out of there. Plus the owner doesn’t want to be paying overtime because I can’t clean faster. So last night I was going to work on that and I think I did a pretty good job, but I don’t think the redeye helped anything.

So I think I’m going to retire that redeye shit. Fuck it.

How else can I improve at bartending? I don’t know, it’s a weird thing, I was trying to figure out how to improve and reading and shit and memorizing cocktails and such, but none of that is really helping in the face to face interactions and the real nuts and bolts of bartending. I’m still pretty bad at it. I can make good drinks and I’m a hard worker, but I dont’ have the real finesse. If only I could get drunk at work. Or at least just steady drink the whole time. Fuck it, I’ll just pretend I’m drunk. I pretty much did that last night and it seemed to work out.

Shit. What the fuck is going on with today? What have I done. And it’s 1:21 PM now so it’s almost time to get on that bus and start figuring that shit out. Have I improved from yesterday? I don’t know.

Tomorrow my girlfriend and I are going to prep the room for the first AirBnB guest. And she has some reading to do so hopefully I will get more chances to write. Ah but what the fuck is the point of writing all this shit? I don’t know I really don’t. Ah Christ these motherfuckers are still trying to bring the whole house down, those bastards downstairs.

Blues People

Readability Index: Readable

I’m reading a book called Blues People by LeRoi Jones AKA Amiri Baraka. It’s really good, but I am rushing through it. I just keep rushing through books lately. I had to look for this one passage I liked for like ten minutes just now because I couldn’t even remember where it came from, and as I looked over the pages I didn’t remember reading half of them. Here’s the passage:

“Music, as paradoxical as it might seem, is the result of thought. It is the result of thought perfected at its most empirical, i.e., as attitude, or stance. Thought is largely conditioned by reference; it is the result of consideration or speculation against reference, which is largely arbitrary. There is no one way of thinking, since reference (hence value) is as scattered and dissimilar as men themselves.”

That’s some deep shit right there. The book isn’t mostly about that kind of thing, I think it’s about how Jazz and Blues came from the perfection of the way black people thought about their place or lack thereof in American society.

I’m going to have to read it again I suppose. Is it better to read more books or know more about one book?

 

Thanks

Readability Index: Readable

Yesterday I had the chance to interact with some really cool people. So I just wanted to take some time to publicly thank my first readers.

djmatticus of The Matticus Kingdom with some funny shit to say about Wallaby and life in general, and I can’t express the thrill at having received my first comment. I never thought it would be so good. But it was.

Eyoälha Baker of JumpforJoyPhotoProject for having cool pictures and quotes and for following my blog…for reasons as yet indiscernible, but I am nonetheless grateful.

The Sensitive Storm for comments and for her similar taste in music.

And I can’t leave out Rizqy Hidayat, the 16-year-old Indonesian computer programmer who designed this sweet ass theme.

Aw man, shit, I’ll never forget you guys. What a crazy road it’s been.

Why I Don’t Participate in Religious Debates

Readability Index: Readable

Yesterday I read a Freshly Pressed blog post about Thought Catalogue…wait what the fuck was that blog called? I don’t know shit I’ll look afterwards. The post I read was a reaction by a gay Christian to an article about how Jesus was gay.

I was very interested to read the reaction, as were many other people, and was even inspired to write a pun for the first time in my life. But that’s not the point.

I respect the blogger for his well thought out opinion and engaging post. Ah what the fuck, it’s not like he’ll have time to read every blog post reacting to his blog post, so I might as well stop hoping not to upset him.

The point is I don’t know why a person who’s both gay and intelligent would want to be known as a Christian. I can respect what Jesus said at the Sermon on the Mount, but Christianity in general…as a cultural…thing…oh I mean institution, well I wouldn’t want to align myself with that at all, even if I did believe that Jesus was the son of himself and also the Holy Ghost.

But the point of this post is that I was thinking about it on the way to work, I thought, well shit, I’m going to ask that dude why he wants to, because he’s a smart dude and therefore probably has a legit reason to want to be identified with the Christian Church. I said hell yeah I’m going to ask that dude.

But then I thought shit no I’m not going to ask that dude! First of all he has a lot going on with all those comments he’s getting, he hasn’t got time to talk to me. No actually that’s last of all. First of all is that shit, even if I were to talk him out of being a Christian (not bloody likely) what good would that do him or me? I don’t have anything better to offer him.

Carl Sagan is the mother fucking man, that’s for sure. I watched his series Cosmos last summer and it was the shit on many levels of being the shit. He doesn’t believe in God, but he marvels at the universe and seems to be happy than a motherfucker doing that. Me I’m like shit son that shit is fucking awesome…but what the hell am I supposed to do now? Propogate the species so we can go out and conquer that shit next? Fuck I don’t know. I’m supposed to just sit there and be awed by that shit, and I do…but I can’t say that it’s an alternative to being sure that your purpose in life is to serve God…meaning that you have a firm belief that you’re supposed to be here.

So since I have nothing better to offer the guy (who I’m not linking to on purpose because I don’t want to debate him or his supporters for the reasons I’ve just outlined), I’m not going to say shit about his post and I’ll just wonder idly why he wants to be associated with the Christians.

It’s like Bokonon said about fake religion being better than no religion…can’t remember exactly what he said and for some reason I don’t have Cat’s Cradle in this office.

Klosterman on Cusack

Readability Index: Highly readable (thanks to most of it being written by someone else)

I don’t know how much is legal to quote from a book, so if I’m doing something illegal let me know. Shit I’m not making any money of this so…should be fine. As long as there’s no money involved people don’t usually care.

But I read a blog post about Soul Mates last night on The Sensitive Storm and it made me think of this essay from Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs.

Here is a key passage. It’s worth reading the whole book, for sure. I read the whole thing on a bus to NYC. I didn’t plan on it, but couldn’t stop myself.

“It appears that countless women born between the years of 1965 and 1978 are in love with John Cusack. I cannot fathom how he isn’t the number-one box-office star in America, because every straight girl I know would sell her soul to share a milkshake with that motherfucker. For upwardly mobile women in their twenties and thirties, John Cusack is the neo-Elvis. But here’s what none of these upwardly mobile women seem to realize: They don’t love John Cusack. They love Lloyd Dobler. When they see Mr. Cusack, they are still seeing the optimistic, charmingly loquacious teenager he played in Say Anything, a movie that came out more than a decade ago.”

“And these upwardly mobile women are not alone. We all convince ourselves of things like this–not necessarily about Say Anything, but about any fictionalized portrayals of romance that happen to hit us in the right place, at the right time. This is why I will never be completely satisfied by a woman, and this is why the kind of woman I tend to find attractive will never be satisfied by me. We will both measure our relationship against the prospect of fake love.”

Yeah that’s some true shit. I had to restrain myself from quoting the whole essay as it’s pretty bad ass the whole way through.

Ah but I can’t leave this out. He starts talking about Coldplay and how they, like Cusack’s movies, promote ‘fake love’:

“What matters is that Coldplay manufactures fake love as frenetically as the Ford fucking Motor Company manufactures Mustangs, and that’s all this woman heard. “For you I bleed myself dry,” sang their blockhead vocalist, brilliantly informing us that the stars in the sky are, in fact, yellow. How am I going to compete with that shit?”

 

Rules One and Two

Readability Index: Readable

1. While writing a post I will not look anything up online. I either have to remember a reference or look it up in a book if I’m really desperate.

2. I will denote which posts are meant to be read as a courtesy to any interested readers. How I’m going to do this…I was trying to do it with categories but I just looked at my blog and the categories aren’t super obvious, so some hapless bastard could end up five minutes in to some meaningless diatribe and never see that it wasn’t meant to be read by the unprepared. So I’ll have to put it in the title. I don’t want to fuck with the title though, they look so cool and I don’t want to crowd them up. Ok the first line of each post will estimate readability. I’d like to have a system, like green means read, orange means shit I don’t know, and red means only if you have thirty minutes to kill. But of course then you’d have to know the system to benefit and the real benefit is aimed toward the uninitiated. I really wanted to use the word uninitiated somewhere in this post. Nailed it.

Bastards Downstairs

God damn I can’t tell if these mother fuckers downstairs are purposely trying to get me out of bed or what. They rolled in here at 8 AM. It’s funny too because he’s the landlord, and he kicked the last people out for being too loud, and I thought they were too loud, too, but when he’s down there he’s louder than all of them! Jesus God.

But I had some interesting things to say, I thought of them all last night in bed and now I can’t remember shit. I can’t remember anything.

It’s become weird, because some people actually read my blog yesterday and I never expected that to happen, and now I’m worried that if I publish some stupid shit about people downstairs it won’t be any good. The other stuff wasn’t very good either, shit, I just threw stuff out there, but now I’m feeling the pressure. Maybe it’s just the hangover.

Last night I went out for a beer with my boss after work. That beer was banging! Bangin like a storm door. Drop dead awesome as shit. Hell yeah. This morning I ate some Puffins. This is the first time I consciously put the “get the blood flowing” theory to work on the old hangover. Usually I would try to sleep it off but I never got that that didn’t even work at all. WordPress wants me to use the tag “storm door” on this post. Fuck it, I might as well. Maybe I’ll get some salesmen.

Met this wine salesman the other day and shit went all awry. I couldn’t keep up with the bastard. I had no idea what was going on, I think he stole some money with the old Kansas City Shuffle. That right there is a hot mess. Kansas City Shuffle. I mean that’s from Lucky Number Slevin and reminds me about what djmatticus was writing about, movie quotes that you can apply to real life. I looked up movie quotes yesterday and saw something I figured was profound before I saw it there but as soon as I saw it there I completely discredited it. Oh shit this Zenmata thing is crazy. I don’t even know what it is. But it’s telling me that there really is a Kansas City Shuffle.

Fuck it might as well throw it on there.

I was thinking I would save this as a draft and then figure out how to separate it into a few more meaningful posts and maybe one rambling bullshit one, but fuck it. I think one thing I’m trying to get from this blog thing is my thought process on paper with dates and shit like that, so I’m just going to publish everything and edit after that.

Some posts I’d like to write before work today:

Rules of the blog, of which I have thought of one

Shout out post, to the cool people I connected with yesterday. Fucking awesome that people can just all the sudden have read what you’re writing and respond to it. I never knew it was possible. I’m straight out of the stone age with this shit.

Something about religious debate, I had a thought yesterday

Some Chuck Klosterman type shit about soul mates

Some Blues People type shit

Some shit about how it’s freezing up in this bitch! Better stand up and walk around.

On using a timer

On bartending

On drinking redeyes

Hoo shit I can’t be posting all that! I’d better just make it one post so I don’t blow away my new followers with all kinds of shit inundating the mailbox. I just wanted to use the word inundating there I kind of jammed it in. Dang Chuck Klosterman’s got this shit on lockdown. He has like a thousand essays just chilling on his website.

Ah fuck it. I’m not Chuck Klosterman that’s for damn sure. I got to do me! And me is posting a bunch of fucking posts all over the damn place like a crazy person and not worrying about the consequences. Fuck the consequences. Came in here with nothing I’ll leave with nothing. Try to act like this shit is going viral out this motherfucker. What is happening.

One thing I don’t like is that this time is in like California time or some shit. Need some EST around here.

Well, fuck it, I’ve done 728 words now. Looking at the word count means it’s time to stop writing, means your brains warmed up.

Message for myself and anyone who read this far – I promise to label all the posts that are worth reading. That’s kind of a rule right there.

But fuck it, I might as well get these fingers started, get them in motion, get the mother fucking timer started. Figure some shit out. Ten minutes to ten out here on the East coast.

Oh and I wanted to write about the god damn super bowl. Never saw that shit coming I’ll tell you what.

But yeah got to roll to work around two so that gives me about four hours of bullshitting. No actually it doesn’t because I got to do some cleaning.

My girlfriend and I are hosting our first AirBnB guest on Saturday night so got to get the room cleaned and all that.

Ah shit I got my paycheck last night and didn’t even look at it yet. Yet I had time to fuck around and comment on some posts and eat Broccoli Soup that my girl made but I thought it was cucumber so I ate it cold. I knew some shit was wrong. I just couldn’t place it.

Oh shit I got paid big time! Not that I can keep any of it of course, got to pay the mother fucking piper and his seventeen brothers that’s for sure. But good to see that anyway. Means I’ll be out of the whole in six years or so. Ah but what was I going to say…I don’t even know. Shit seems to be going alright.

Man, I started looking at these links to see what’s up…they’re pretty damn useful. I just learned about Bennie Moten and the real Kansas City Shuffle. I just used that shit from Lucky Number Slevin never once knowing what the hell it was. Turns out that shit is mad interesting. And it’s funny too because I’m reading this book, Blues People, by LeRoi Jones and he talks about Bennie Moten, who apparently wrote the song “Kansas City Shuffle.” Man shit just gets connected everywhere you go.

Ha, these links want me to link the phrase “fuck it” to Amazon where you can buy Eamon’s single of the same name.