Back when I considered myself a traveler, or a wanderer or fucking whatever because I thought it sounded romantic and Kerouacian, I idolized people who could travel freely and extensively and I flat out looked down upon those who seemingly had the part of their soul that longs for sojourn surgically removed.
I would have conversations where I would say things like, "Why would someone want to stay in one place? Why don't they want to go out and experience the world?"
And the individuals I spoke with would agree with me, and say yes, of course, why wouldn't they?
The assumption that there are people who have an ideal world that opposes my own is inherent to my personality. I grew up idolizing personalities that had a direct enemy. Finding out I have no one to fight is...uncomfortable. Is this a generational thing? thanks to eighties movies, we grew up believing the protagonist was always an underdog, and we're learning that is really never the case and as a result we feel unimportant.
Or is this just me?
I've always assumed there were people out there who had a desire to stay put and experience nothing new, that there were people whose goals never reached beyond remain, consume, endure. In a way, I made them my hypothetical enemies.
But I've never actually met any people like that.
For reference, here is a list of other people I have never personally met, but hypothetically frown upon because I assume they exist:
1. someone who has never felt like an outsider
2. someone who believes pit bulls are inherently vicious
3. someone who super enjoys a good office cubicle
4. someone who never questions authority
5. someone who hates Disneyland
Sure, I've met people who cannot afford the luxury of travel. I've met people that grow out of their insecurities. I've met people who are afraid of dogs. I've met people who enjoy their job at the office. I've met people who follow the rules, and I've me people who don't give a crap about amusement parks.
But that's living in a shade of gray, and it's undesirable to fight gray.
You know, it's not that I want to go out and "experience the world." It's that I like wandering into new places, and having a beer and talking to people. That's what I like to do. And I want to do that in as many places as possible.
And when MoLinder, Katsisch and I got to Munich, what did we do? Well, we hugged Gyna like hell, because she lives there and she's amazing. We rode Falkor (oh, that's right), said howdy to ze Germans, then immediately got a beer and shared stories. We went to Salzburg and we wandered around and then sat down and had a beer and told stories. We went to Copenhagen and we wandered around and had a beer and told stories. Sometimes we were talking to strangers (natives and fellow travelers), sometimes we were talking to each other. But it never got tedious, it never got pressing. Not to me. Unless I had to pee really, really bad or something.
To me that is doing something. That is experiencing the world. Because I'm taking what I love and I'm making it work within other places and cultures, I'm learning about other people's lives and how they relate to my own, I'm learning about my sister, I'm learning about my best friends, I'm learning how we fit together and I fucking dig that.
I got some criticism because we went to five cities in ten days. But it was never stressful, really, since our goal wasn't to tour. It was to wander, enjoy people's company, share memories and stories and have beers. I loved it so, so much.
And that, I think, makes us awesome.
What would I do if the world was ending tomorrow? I would invite everyone I liked to wander aimlessly around with me, get drunk, yell at people and share stories. That is what I would want to do.
So. Seeing as I am not Dave Attell or Anthony Bourdain, how do I turn this into a job?
...
Showing posts with label PBR. Show all posts
Showing posts with label PBR. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
I Was On Fire This Weekend, Figuratively Speaking.
"Excuse me," I slide up to the gentlemen at the bar. I'm like butter. "I couldn't help but overhear that, uh, you guys were having a conversation. Might I join?"
They stop talking and turn to look at me. Turn to each other, one motion, then back at me, amused and trying to hold back surprised chuckles. I'm deadpan and drunk as all hell, and focused on keeping my eyes naturally wide and innocent, but I probably look like some drunk girl focused on keeping her eyes wide and innocent, and it's fucking brilliant.
"Really? Did you just say that?"
I tilt, like a bird. "Say what?"
"That. Is. Awesome. Yes," the first guy snickers. I name him Hat Guy in my brain, and he offers me a beer-spilling cheers, "Yes, yes, you can join in on our conversation."
"How come we never thought of that?" the second guy (I have named him Ginger by now) says to Hat Guy as he sips his beer.
"Because I am on fire today," I explain, "you guys have like, no idea how awesome I am today. Go on. Ask me how awesome I am."
"How awesome are you?" they're in unison, and it's funny.
I smile, and I'm butter again. "Very."
"Okay, that's fair," Hat Guy smiles.
"I'm convinced," Ginger adds.
I take a sip of my beer. "I am so awesome," I clap my hand on Hat Guy's shoulder, "that I just invented the best pick-up line ever, because it's not just a pick-up line, it's a test." I nod at them, knowingly, willing them to understand.
It takes a few seconds. They're befuddled, slightly, and Hat Guy starts to come around. "Oh, because if we think it's funny..."
"Then you are also awesome."
"So you're picking us up?" Ginger won't look at me. Look at me, Ginger, or I will make you look at me.
"Oh, psssh, no," I'm smug and drunk, and my feet slip on the floor behind their barstools, "they just dared me to talk to you guys and I was all, 'fucking watch this, bitches, I'm like a social butterfly' and I said the first thing that came to mind. By the way, I don't know if you guys saw that, but I totally just almost slipped and fell right there, and then you guys would have had to pick up pieces of my face."
They laugh. "I like you," Ginger nods.
Hat Guy agrees. "Yeah, I like her, too."
Duh. "Duh. I'm like a genius or something."
"Or something. What's your name?"
We exchange names, and I forget theirs instantly. They are Hat Guy and Ginger.
"So, Rassles, what're you drinking?" Hat Guy asks.
"PBR. Are you buying me a beer? You are excellent."
Ginger turns to me. "So, you're a genius, right? You said that?"
I nod very seriously.
"Plus, you have good pick up lines," Ginger says.
"Plus that, and then multiply it by awesome."
"So your friends told you to talk to us," Hat Guy affirms.
"Yup." I wave my hand towards the corner and and grab the back of his chair. "Over there. Back corner. I'm glad I did--you guys are fun."
Hat Guy smiles and ponders for a moment while he hands me my beer. "I'm gonna go talk to them." He stands up. "You don't mind?"
"Go nuts, Hat Guy."
He laughs, marching over to their table.
"Be nice! Some of them are from Canada," I yell after him. Turn to Ginger. "So seriously, what were you guys talking about?"
...
They stop talking and turn to look at me. Turn to each other, one motion, then back at me, amused and trying to hold back surprised chuckles. I'm deadpan and drunk as all hell, and focused on keeping my eyes naturally wide and innocent, but I probably look like some drunk girl focused on keeping her eyes wide and innocent, and it's fucking brilliant.
"Really? Did you just say that?"
I tilt, like a bird. "Say what?"
"That. Is. Awesome. Yes," the first guy snickers. I name him Hat Guy in my brain, and he offers me a beer-spilling cheers, "Yes, yes, you can join in on our conversation."
"How come we never thought of that?" the second guy (I have named him Ginger by now) says to Hat Guy as he sips his beer.
"Because I am on fire today," I explain, "you guys have like, no idea how awesome I am today. Go on. Ask me how awesome I am."
"How awesome are you?" they're in unison, and it's funny.
I smile, and I'm butter again. "Very."
"Okay, that's fair," Hat Guy smiles.
"I'm convinced," Ginger adds.
I take a sip of my beer. "I am so awesome," I clap my hand on Hat Guy's shoulder, "that I just invented the best pick-up line ever, because it's not just a pick-up line, it's a test." I nod at them, knowingly, willing them to understand.
It takes a few seconds. They're befuddled, slightly, and Hat Guy starts to come around. "Oh, because if we think it's funny..."
"Then you are also awesome."
"So you're picking us up?" Ginger won't look at me. Look at me, Ginger, or I will make you look at me.
"Oh, psssh, no," I'm smug and drunk, and my feet slip on the floor behind their barstools, "they just dared me to talk to you guys and I was all, 'fucking watch this, bitches, I'm like a social butterfly' and I said the first thing that came to mind. By the way, I don't know if you guys saw that, but I totally just almost slipped and fell right there, and then you guys would have had to pick up pieces of my face."
They laugh. "I like you," Ginger nods.
Hat Guy agrees. "Yeah, I like her, too."
Duh. "Duh. I'm like a genius or something."
"Or something. What's your name?"
We exchange names, and I forget theirs instantly. They are Hat Guy and Ginger.
"So, Rassles, what're you drinking?" Hat Guy asks.
"PBR. Are you buying me a beer? You are excellent."
Ginger turns to me. "So, you're a genius, right? You said that?"
I nod very seriously.
"Plus, you have good pick up lines," Ginger says.
"Plus that, and then multiply it by awesome."
"So your friends told you to talk to us," Hat Guy affirms.
"Yup." I wave my hand towards the corner and and grab the back of his chair. "Over there. Back corner. I'm glad I did--you guys are fun."
Hat Guy smiles and ponders for a moment while he hands me my beer. "I'm gonna go talk to them." He stands up. "You don't mind?"
"Go nuts, Hat Guy."
He laughs, marching over to their table.
"Be nice! Some of them are from Canada," I yell after him. Turn to Ginger. "So seriously, what were you guys talking about?"
...
Monday, June 8, 2009
Hateful Tricks On Your Tongue
Back when I lived in the burbs with my parents, basically the summers between college and the few years after, me and all of my other worthless friends going through our post-secondary education adolescence used to hang out at some seedy ass bars.
College in the Quad City Area opens you up to the seduction of double wide trailers, dog tracks, smoky, moth-eaten casinos, car thieves, parking on the front lawn. We donated plasma for drinking money and we would sit in the lounge of the plasma bank with all the other Mississippi River Rats, ready to be drained of bodily fluids (but sixty bucks richer) just so we could get drunk quicker and blow it all at the casino next door.
Okay, so I did that once. Twice? Let's not make it seem like I was cool enough to pull that kind of righteousness all the time. But you get the picture.
Then we'd study, taking full advantage of our upper-crusty liberal arts education with all the other suburban kids who migrated to the river for their college education. But some of us really tried to take advantage of shady side of the QCA.
So during college breaks, back in the pleasant confines of Naperville, my friends and I would seek out the fringe establishments that were as close to the QCA as possible.
Anyway, one of our favorite hangouts was this dirty ass bar called the Squirrel Cage, run by a pit-stained three hundred pound walking heart attack who lived upstairs and planted himself on a sagging plastic stool behind the bar with his legs splayed open and fed us string cheese and pork rinds. I don't remember his name, but when he wasn't working, Wes, his hot 29 year old son, tended bar (um, I don't know if you've ever been a horny, plain-looking 22 year old girl, but nearly every guy between 25 and 35 who smiles at you sideways is seriously hot, and not at all creepy.)
"They have PBR," my friend Kim said, "on tap. You need to come there with me." Bear in mind, please, this was in 2002, before the Great Pabst Surge, so this was a big fucking deal and the main reason we went there.
But the other thing about the Squirrel Cage was the ever-threatening, lurking presence of Jeppson Malort.
If you're not familiar with Malort...you're a fucking lucky bastard. Do not, ever, under any conditions, knowingly accept a shot of Malort from another human being. They are playing a nasty, hateful trick on your tongue, and you're probably better off drinking Liquid Plummer laced with gasoline and a hint of mint, because that's the kind of taste infusion Jeppson is going for. What kills your will to keep down your lunch, however, is the lingering, venomous, cottonmouth-and-bug-spray aftertaste that coats your throat and esophagus for the next twenty minutes or so.
Seriously. It's the most antagonistic liquid I have ever had in my mouth. Google it.
The only way to get rid of the after taste is to take another shot, and then the vicious cycle continues like an infinite mirror effect, but if the infinite mirror was actually infinite shots of tequila mixed with rumplemintz, cigarette butts, and crack needles.
So after steadily frequenting the Squirrel Cage for about two weeks, one day Wes dropped off three surprise shots for us along with our usual PBR's.
"What's this?"
"On me." He winks, and like washes a glass or something.
"Is it like"--I smell it---"gaaaacck...ugggh. Fuck."
He snickers and does that Upward Guy Nod thing, smiling. "Just trust me."
Me and my friends exchange looks, clank our shot glasses, and proceed to murder ourselves.
Luke puckers immediately, slamming his shot glass down on the bar, and bolts for the bathroom. I'm making huffing sounds, squinting. Coughing. Kim licks her lips, scrunches her eyebrows and throws her shot glass at Wes.
"That was foul," she states, plainly.
One of the regulars at the other side of the bar starts cackling at us.
I'm still coughing. "You are a total dick."
Wes is still grinning. "Your buddy okay?"
"You probably killed him," Kim coughs and spits, which surprises me, because she's always buttery and sly.
Luke comes out of the bathroom and points at Wes, mumbling, "I fucking hate you, dude."
I can't take it. "WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?"
Wes grabs a cloudy bottle of urine-colored booze and sets gently it in front of us. Jeppson Malort.
There's actually a little cautionary tag attached to the bottle.
It's an initiation of sorts, an illicit hazing ritual that so many Chicago neighborhood dives impose upon their naive regulars.
And now, people out there are trying to make that shit taste good. I respect the challenge, but sometimes? I feel like Malort remains a secret for a reason. How the fuck else are you going to show your regulars some swindling, bastardized love? How else are we supposed to send steaming cups of evil to people we don't like, or trick tourists into sudden death? So unfair.
...
College in the Quad City Area opens you up to the seduction of double wide trailers, dog tracks, smoky, moth-eaten casinos, car thieves, parking on the front lawn. We donated plasma for drinking money and we would sit in the lounge of the plasma bank with all the other Mississippi River Rats, ready to be drained of bodily fluids (but sixty bucks richer) just so we could get drunk quicker and blow it all at the casino next door.
Okay, so I did that once. Twice? Let's not make it seem like I was cool enough to pull that kind of righteousness all the time. But you get the picture.
Then we'd study, taking full advantage of our upper-crusty liberal arts education with all the other suburban kids who migrated to the river for their college education. But some of us really tried to take advantage of shady side of the QCA.
So during college breaks, back in the pleasant confines of Naperville, my friends and I would seek out the fringe establishments that were as close to the QCA as possible.
Anyway, one of our favorite hangouts was this dirty ass bar called the Squirrel Cage, run by a pit-stained three hundred pound walking heart attack who lived upstairs and planted himself on a sagging plastic stool behind the bar with his legs splayed open and fed us string cheese and pork rinds. I don't remember his name, but when he wasn't working, Wes, his hot 29 year old son, tended bar (um, I don't know if you've ever been a horny, plain-looking 22 year old girl, but nearly every guy between 25 and 35 who smiles at you sideways is seriously hot, and not at all creepy.)
"They have PBR," my friend Kim said, "on tap. You need to come there with me." Bear in mind, please, this was in 2002, before the Great Pabst Surge, so this was a big fucking deal and the main reason we went there.
But the other thing about the Squirrel Cage was the ever-threatening, lurking presence of Jeppson Malort.
If you're not familiar with Malort...you're a fucking lucky bastard. Do not, ever, under any conditions, knowingly accept a shot of Malort from another human being. They are playing a nasty, hateful trick on your tongue, and you're probably better off drinking Liquid Plummer laced with gasoline and a hint of mint, because that's the kind of taste infusion Jeppson is going for. What kills your will to keep down your lunch, however, is the lingering, venomous, cottonmouth-and-bug-spray aftertaste that coats your throat and esophagus for the next twenty minutes or so.
Seriously. It's the most antagonistic liquid I have ever had in my mouth. Google it.
The only way to get rid of the after taste is to take another shot, and then the vicious cycle continues like an infinite mirror effect, but if the infinite mirror was actually infinite shots of tequila mixed with rumplemintz, cigarette butts, and crack needles.
So after steadily frequenting the Squirrel Cage for about two weeks, one day Wes dropped off three surprise shots for us along with our usual PBR's.
"What's this?"
"On me." He winks, and like washes a glass or something.
"Is it like"--I smell it---"gaaaacck...ugggh. Fuck."
He snickers and does that Upward Guy Nod thing, smiling. "Just trust me."
Me and my friends exchange looks, clank our shot glasses, and proceed to murder ourselves.
Luke puckers immediately, slamming his shot glass down on the bar, and bolts for the bathroom. I'm making huffing sounds, squinting. Coughing. Kim licks her lips, scrunches her eyebrows and throws her shot glass at Wes.
"That was foul," she states, plainly.
One of the regulars at the other side of the bar starts cackling at us.
I'm still coughing. "You are a total dick."
Wes is still grinning. "Your buddy okay?"
"You probably killed him," Kim coughs and spits, which surprises me, because she's always buttery and sly.
Luke comes out of the bathroom and points at Wes, mumbling, "I fucking hate you, dude."
I can't take it. "WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?"
Wes grabs a cloudy bottle of urine-colored booze and sets gently it in front of us. Jeppson Malort.
There's actually a little cautionary tag attached to the bottle.
Most first-time drinkers of Jeppson Malort reject our liquor. Its strong, sharp taste is not for everyone. Our liquor is rugged and unrelenting (even brutal) to the palate. During almost 60 years of American distribution, we found only 1 out of 49 men will drink Jeppson Malort. During the lifetime of our founder, Carl Jeppson was apt to say, "My Malort is produced for that unique group of drinkers who disdain light flavor or neutral spirits."
It is not possible to forget our two-fisted liquor. The taste just lingers and lasts - seemingly forever. The first shot is hard to swallow! PERSERVERE. Make it past two 'shock-glasses' and with the third you could be ours...forever
It's an initiation of sorts, an illicit hazing ritual that so many Chicago neighborhood dives impose upon their naive regulars.
And now, people out there are trying to make that shit taste good. I respect the challenge, but sometimes? I feel like Malort remains a secret for a reason. How the fuck else are you going to show your regulars some swindling, bastardized love? How else are we supposed to send steaming cups of evil to people we don't like, or trick tourists into sudden death? So unfair.
...
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
The City of New Orleans: Professional Drinkers Association
Day Three.
Because of the shatness of Bourbon Street, on Monday night we bought PBR silos and loitered on the sidewalk behind the cathedral in Jackson Square Park. Okay, sure, technically only Coors Light comes in silos, being the silver bullet and everything [nards] but you can't full well call a 24 oz can of heaven a tallboy when it's more than a tall order and you're drinking double the pleasure. So "silo" it is.
After striding around the block for awhile, two dirty crackheads plopped next to us on the sidewalk. We carried on conversations within our own individual groups, laughed at the same jokes and threw sporadic conversational interjections at each other.
A stranger ambled up after about half an hour, saddled with a low-slung back pack and munching out of a box of Crunch Berries with a long-handled spoon.
"Hey strangeh," called a crackhead. "Where yeh headin'?"
"Down Frenchmen street. There's a [some musical style] band playing at [some bar] and they got [some drink specials.]"
"Niiiiiice. I'll be headin down theah lateh."
"Cooo, maybe I'll see ya."
"Aiight. I'll be lookin fer the boxxah Crunch Berries." They exchanged smiles and a handslapfingersnap, and Crunch Berry Guy drifted away with his box and spoon.
I looked at Muffy. "I am hungry. And that guy was awesome."
"Dude. Yes."
"He is not an amateur."
"Hell no, that guy's definitely a professional. I'll bet he gets paid to be fucked up."
"I would pay him to be fucked up."
"I would give you half."
"And then I'd double his fucking salary."
"Crunch Berry Guy is so pro he's got a Masters In Professional Fuckedupness."
"Yeah, but that M.P.F. was bestowed upon him in the streets. Being a Professional in a field such as ours is a natural talent. That's some shit you can't learn at Tulane."
"Fuck Tulane."
"Unless he went to Kellogg. Now that's a school for Professional management."
"HAH! For sure, dude. And Crunch Berry guy manages to mix business and cereal."
"Dude, cereal is business. That's what they teach you at Kellogg."
"Cereal is serious business."
"They should really leave cereal for the Professionals."
"PDA 2009, dude. P. D. A."
We hung out there for a couple of hours before wandering back to the hotel, where I ate some Cheetos, wrote a drunk blog, and then convinced Muffy and Amber to head back out with me.
I led them to the casino across the street. I was just itching to play craps. Seriously itching. Took twenty dollars cash and an ID, because if I'd had plastic on me I would have diced my ass off. Nearly two hours of craps and free drinks, and I passed out back at the hotel with fifteen still in my pocket. Muffy and Amber weren't as lucky, but then again, they don't play craps.
And I am a Professional.
But the highlight of the night was back on the sidewalk, leaning against the fence behind that cathedral.
"I came here twenty-two years ago with my dad--" the older dirty crackhead began, his voice surprisingly clear and pleasant, without an ounce of the grit we expected, "--and he was like, I'll be right back."
He paused to light a cigarette, taking a long, slow drag. "I'm still waiting," he exhales in an expert stream of smoke. "He never came back."
We exchanged secret glances, listening in on his confession.
"So I fucking went to Mardi Gras and sold my roller skates for crack."
...
Because of the shatness of Bourbon Street, on Monday night we bought PBR silos and loitered on the sidewalk behind the cathedral in Jackson Square Park. Okay, sure, technically only Coors Light comes in silos, being the silver bullet and everything [nards] but you can't full well call a 24 oz can of heaven a tallboy when it's more than a tall order and you're drinking double the pleasure. So "silo" it is.
After striding around the block for awhile, two dirty crackheads plopped next to us on the sidewalk. We carried on conversations within our own individual groups, laughed at the same jokes and threw sporadic conversational interjections at each other.
A stranger ambled up after about half an hour, saddled with a low-slung back pack and munching out of a box of Crunch Berries with a long-handled spoon.
"Hey strangeh," called a crackhead. "Where yeh headin'?"
"Down Frenchmen street. There's a [some musical style] band playing at [some bar] and they got [some drink specials.]"
"Niiiiiice. I'll be headin down theah lateh."
"Cooo, maybe I'll see ya."
"Aiight. I'll be lookin fer the boxxah Crunch Berries." They exchanged smiles and a handslapfingersnap, and Crunch Berry Guy drifted away with his box and spoon.
I looked at Muffy. "I am hungry. And that guy was awesome."
"Dude. Yes."
"He is not an amateur."
"Hell no, that guy's definitely a professional. I'll bet he gets paid to be fucked up."
"I would pay him to be fucked up."
"I would give you half."
"And then I'd double his fucking salary."
"Crunch Berry Guy is so pro he's got a Masters In Professional Fuckedupness."
"Yeah, but that M.P.F. was bestowed upon him in the streets. Being a Professional in a field such as ours is a natural talent. That's some shit you can't learn at Tulane."
"Fuck Tulane."
"Unless he went to Kellogg. Now that's a school for Professional management."
"HAH! For sure, dude. And Crunch Berry guy manages to mix business and cereal."
"Dude, cereal is business. That's what they teach you at Kellogg."
"Cereal is serious business."
"They should really leave cereal for the Professionals."
"PDA 2009, dude. P. D. A."
We hung out there for a couple of hours before wandering back to the hotel, where I ate some Cheetos, wrote a drunk blog, and then convinced Muffy and Amber to head back out with me.
I led them to the casino across the street. I was just itching to play craps. Seriously itching. Took twenty dollars cash and an ID, because if I'd had plastic on me I would have diced my ass off. Nearly two hours of craps and free drinks, and I passed out back at the hotel with fifteen still in my pocket. Muffy and Amber weren't as lucky, but then again, they don't play craps.
And I am a Professional.
But the highlight of the night was back on the sidewalk, leaning against the fence behind that cathedral.
"I came here twenty-two years ago with my dad--" the older dirty crackhead began, his voice surprisingly clear and pleasant, without an ounce of the grit we expected, "--and he was like, I'll be right back."
He paused to light a cigarette, taking a long, slow drag. "I'm still waiting," he exhales in an expert stream of smoke. "He never came back."
We exchanged secret glances, listening in on his confession.
"So I fucking went to Mardi Gras and sold my roller skates for crack."
...
Sunday, March 22, 2009
We Need More Beer.
If anyone lives in Carbondale, our train will be there at 1:21 AM. Please drop off one case of PBR...hold on...a fifth of Jager, and some peppermint schnapps to the Carbondale Amtrak station. Because we are out of liquor.
We have a five minute window. You must be there between 1:21 and 1:26 AM.
Thank you for your time.
You will be paid back in cash money, karma and possible blow jobs, but probably not from Bobbay. Or Margaret. Or Amber. Or me, really. Okay, so Muffy might suck you off.
...
We have a five minute window. You must be there between 1:21 and 1:26 AM.
Thank you for your time.
You will be paid back in cash money, karma and possible blow jobs, but probably not from Bobbay. Or Margaret. Or Amber. Or me, really. Okay, so Muffy might suck you off.
...
Monday, March 2, 2009
Sup.
So, because I love nothing more than selling out and conformity, I volunteered myself for Interview 2009 after like half of you did it first. I don't never read A Free Man's blog regularly, however I probably will start doing so, because after stalking him all weekend he's got sweet tunes and science, which is like, a Duplex of Cool. Plus he writes good.
Obviously I don't.
Sarala is a stranger from Blogaway, who was assigned to interview me, because she is lucky as all get out. She's also from Chicago, and she's building an excellent photo collection for her blog with some pictures of the city and around the world. But I like it best when she talks about Chicago, because she gets it here.
And tomorrow, I will present the second half of this interview, or "What Happened To Numbers Five Through Eight." I'm sure you guys are shaking in your boots at how I'll respond to her questions.
1. We both live in Chicago. It is Karma or Kismet or something. We decide to do a meet. What do you pick for us to do and why?
First, I'm going to buy a thirty pack of PBR and some Smartfood white cheese popcorn, because it's delicious. Then I'm gonna go home, sit on my couch, have some beer and fuck around on the internet for about half an hour before I remember that I was supposed do something, so I'll text you with a harmless lie about being really tired and accidentally falling asleep. You'll be all, "it's cool, no big" and then I'll see if you just want to come over to watch Dating on Demand and turn it into a drinking game.
So you'll totally agree and come over and we'll sit around and get drunk watching everyone convince us they're special and worth fucking, until people start sending me text messages about where I'm supposed to go that night, and no one can agree on the same fucking place. You're gonna say something like, "I don't care what we do, I'm up for whatever" and then I will get really, really, really annoyed at your indecision. And in the end we're just going to agree to go to the same fucking bars that we always go to, and I'm not going to care, and everyone will bitch about how they want to go somewhere else, and I'll get increasingly irritated and start doing secret shots of whiskey.
No, seriously, Sarala, we'd go to Architectural Artifacts. It's a store that specializes in selling decorations to the obscenely rich. They have a crank-operated truck-drawn carousel, a room devoted to their door-knob collection, giant industrial bronze cartridges of baby doll heads stripped from a torn-down doll factory, faux bois Argentinian bird cages, and hundreds of fireplace mantles that you can sift through like vinyl albums. You would love it there.
2. "I'm like the crazy cat lady but with commas instead of kittens," you write. That is one of the best similes I've heard in a long time. OK, you just wrote the next Great American Novel. What will it be called and what will you tell your editor when she demands that you take out half the commas?
First of all, if someone's willing to edit and publish my words, I'm not gonna worry about my artistic punctuational integrity. I'm doing what she says, man. Because I never shut up, and I need people to tell me to stop sometimes. I just keep on adding commas and "ands" and sprinkling them throughout everything. As for a title? I'm at a loss.
3. Speaking of cats: cat person or dog person? Why?
Under normal circumstances, it's dogs to the bone. But then my sister, Yellavitch, came to visit me on Saturday.
"Wait, you have to see this, it's fucking adorable," I bolted over to her and snatched my roommate's cat out of her hands.
"But, she was all cuddly," Yellavitch whispers softly, "and I don't even like cats."
"Whatever, just watch." I curl up around Kitty on my chair and scratch above her tail. "She's not doing it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Why aren't you squeaking, Kitty?"
"Oh. My. God."
"What?" I'm still scratching and smiling like a dick at the cat, trying to coax her into squeaking. "Come on, Kitty."
"Do you realize how Crazy Cat Lady you are? You're all, 'why aren't you squeaking widdew iddy biddy Kitty? Googoo blahblah googoo.'"
"No fucking way was I saying googoo blahblah whatever," I look at Kitty, and hushed, smiling, "Squeak, you little bitch."
"Nearly. I never thought...seriously, Sister. You like cats."
"I know. And seriously, you would too if you had these cats around. I mean--I know, fuck, I know, but she's just so pretty. Yes you are. You're a pretty Kitty--oh, fuck me, I suck at life," I whine, throwing the cat on the ground and pouting.
"I'm telling everyone we know about this."
"You better. I deserve it."
In the end, I'm a devout dog person. My dog lives with my parents right now, as many of you know, and I miss the crap out of him. I mean, I'm so obsessed I got a tattoo of him on my forearm from a little sketchy comic I used to draw in high school. But basically, I won't take in a dog unless I have either a yard or can work out of home, because otherwise it's just not fair to the dog. I'm staunch on this.
Dogs. And MoLinder's cats.
4. You don't use pictures on your blog. Are you camera shy? Now you have to have a portrait for the book jacket on your novel. What will you wear and what pose will you pick?
Pictures are difficult for me. I'm afraid of stalkers, due to my traffic-stopping crime scene Trojan Horses gorgeousness. So, you know. Safety purposes. With this knowledge, affixed betwixt a bio and publication information on my book jacket instead of my own magnetic, elemental effulgence, I would probably find some painfully unexceptional girl of mediocre, perhaps slightly leprechaunish appearance, get her really plotzed on whiskey and beer, shove her down some stairs, take pictures of her trying to stand and put one of those suckers on there.
Now that I think about it, I really do kind of look like a leprechaun.
...
Obviously I don't.
Sarala is a stranger from Blogaway, who was assigned to interview me, because she is lucky as all get out. She's also from Chicago, and she's building an excellent photo collection for her blog with some pictures of the city and around the world. But I like it best when she talks about Chicago, because she gets it here.
And tomorrow, I will present the second half of this interview, or "What Happened To Numbers Five Through Eight." I'm sure you guys are shaking in your boots at how I'll respond to her questions.
1. We both live in Chicago. It is Karma or Kismet or something. We decide to do a meet. What do you pick for us to do and why?
First, I'm going to buy a thirty pack of PBR and some Smartfood white cheese popcorn, because it's delicious. Then I'm gonna go home, sit on my couch, have some beer and fuck around on the internet for about half an hour before I remember that I was supposed do something, so I'll text you with a harmless lie about being really tired and accidentally falling asleep. You'll be all, "it's cool, no big" and then I'll see if you just want to come over to watch Dating on Demand and turn it into a drinking game.
So you'll totally agree and come over and we'll sit around and get drunk watching everyone convince us they're special and worth fucking, until people start sending me text messages about where I'm supposed to go that night, and no one can agree on the same fucking place. You're gonna say something like, "I don't care what we do, I'm up for whatever" and then I will get really, really, really annoyed at your indecision. And in the end we're just going to agree to go to the same fucking bars that we always go to, and I'm not going to care, and everyone will bitch about how they want to go somewhere else, and I'll get increasingly irritated and start doing secret shots of whiskey.
No, seriously, Sarala, we'd go to Architectural Artifacts. It's a store that specializes in selling decorations to the obscenely rich. They have a crank-operated truck-drawn carousel, a room devoted to their door-knob collection, giant industrial bronze cartridges of baby doll heads stripped from a torn-down doll factory, faux bois Argentinian bird cages, and hundreds of fireplace mantles that you can sift through like vinyl albums. You would love it there.
2. "I'm like the crazy cat lady but with commas instead of kittens," you write. That is one of the best similes I've heard in a long time. OK, you just wrote the next Great American Novel. What will it be called and what will you tell your editor when she demands that you take out half the commas?
First of all, if someone's willing to edit and publish my words, I'm not gonna worry about my artistic punctuational integrity. I'm doing what she says, man. Because I never shut up, and I need people to tell me to stop sometimes. I just keep on adding commas and "ands" and sprinkling them throughout everything. As for a title? I'm at a loss.
3. Speaking of cats: cat person or dog person? Why?
Under normal circumstances, it's dogs to the bone. But then my sister, Yellavitch, came to visit me on Saturday.
"Wait, you have to see this, it's fucking adorable," I bolted over to her and snatched my roommate's cat out of her hands.
"But, she was all cuddly," Yellavitch whispers softly, "and I don't even like cats."
"Whatever, just watch." I curl up around Kitty on my chair and scratch above her tail. "She's not doing it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Why aren't you squeaking, Kitty?"
"Oh. My. God."
"What?" I'm still scratching and smiling like a dick at the cat, trying to coax her into squeaking. "Come on, Kitty."
"Do you realize how Crazy Cat Lady you are? You're all, 'why aren't you squeaking widdew iddy biddy Kitty? Googoo blahblah googoo.'"
"No fucking way was I saying googoo blahblah whatever," I look at Kitty, and hushed, smiling, "Squeak, you little bitch."
"Nearly. I never thought...seriously, Sister. You like cats."
"I know. And seriously, you would too if you had these cats around. I mean--I know, fuck, I know, but she's just so pretty. Yes you are. You're a pretty Kitty--oh, fuck me, I suck at life," I whine, throwing the cat on the ground and pouting.
"I'm telling everyone we know about this."
"You better. I deserve it."
In the end, I'm a devout dog person. My dog lives with my parents right now, as many of you know, and I miss the crap out of him. I mean, I'm so obsessed I got a tattoo of him on my forearm from a little sketchy comic I used to draw in high school. But basically, I won't take in a dog unless I have either a yard or can work out of home, because otherwise it's just not fair to the dog. I'm staunch on this.
Dogs. And MoLinder's cats.
4. You don't use pictures on your blog. Are you camera shy? Now you have to have a portrait for the book jacket on your novel. What will you wear and what pose will you pick?
Pictures are difficult for me. I'm afraid of stalkers, due to my traffic-stopping crime scene Trojan Horses gorgeousness. So, you know. Safety purposes. With this knowledge, affixed betwixt a bio and publication information on my book jacket instead of my own magnetic, elemental effulgence, I would probably find some painfully unexceptional girl of mediocre, perhaps slightly leprechaunish appearance, get her really plotzed on whiskey and beer, shove her down some stairs, take pictures of her trying to stand and put one of those suckers on there.
Now that I think about it, I really do kind of look like a leprechaun.
...
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
I love it when people listen when I say things I love.
I am, arguably, the worst person in existence to take to a movie theater. More importantly, if you are taking me to a movie, it better be something so fucking good that I can only focus on the screen in front of me. Otherwise, I will simultaneously have a conversation with you, start cranking Paper Moon in my head, listen to the movie, and still leave the theater with a better understanding of what was up on that screen than all of the other people sitting around me.
That is my one and only gift, I think. Speech recollection. I can pay attention to like, four conversations at once. I could probably act out the entire movie I saw last night if it didn’t make me want to rip out my tongue and communicate only via Mongolian throat overtones just to drown out the memory of that dialogue.
"Farking stupid, is what I am. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
"Me and Gyna were all about seeing a movie last night. At least, I was. I didn't even care what movie, but there was a small part of me that wanted to see this one. Perhaps it could offer crucial advice, or a couple funny lines. I mean, I should at least enjoy looking at Bradley Cooper, right? Eye candy? The fact that this movie even got produced makes me furious.
I mean, I hated it more than I hated the musical version of Wicked=, and I'll complain about my loathing for that garbage dump of bitchfuckery to anyone with ears.
As far as I'm concerned, there were three good things surfing through that film bilge that technically had nothing to do with the movie itself:
Kris Kristofferson is still alive. Billy the Kid. Too bad he chose this synthetic bullshit script above something imaginary, like Blade Four: Quadratic.
Derek Waters was in one scene, mumbling his single line and taking up space and riding on the coattails of celebrity friendships. Love that guy.
While conversing obnoxiously about the movie throughout the movie, and after one ear slicing line of dialogue, Gyna announces, in nearly perfectly altered iambic pentameter, “My god I want to kill myself.” I get stuck in hysterics, delighted to be a nuisance to everyone enjoying the scene, because those people are obviously a few slogan-tees short of a faux Stiles.
Not to go all femi-crazy, but seriously? Are there women out there who behave like the dumbasses in this movie? Obviously they exist, I mean, there were people in the theater who liked the movie. Gyna sides with me on this one. What kind off crap-ass girls are wandering around out there in public? Who are these women? <
Every single female in that movie was a fucking moron. The very thought of living like that, in a perpetual state of crazy, embarrasses me. So immediately after the movie, we went to a bar.
"Fucking seriously, that movie ruined my life," I said to a co-worker this morning. "I don't know what could make me feel better after that."
"What about...a burger from Kuma's?"
Sideways look, small grin. "Well that would be nice."
She gets sing-songy. "And a PBR?"
I nod, smirkishly. "I do loves me some PBR."
"Okay, I got it," she straightens herself up in her chair.
"What if you were eating Kuma's and drinking PBR with 1989 Bruce Willis and watching The Watchmen?”
“Oh my god. That would be—I would—overload—I mean—"
“Hu--"
"--Orgasm.”
I love it when people listen when I say things I love.
...
That is my one and only gift, I think. Speech recollection. I can pay attention to like, four conversations at once. I could probably act out the entire movie I saw last night if it didn’t make me want to rip out my tongue and communicate only via Mongolian throat overtones just to drown out the memory of that dialogue.
"Farking stupid, is what I am. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
"Me and Gyna were all about seeing a movie last night. At least, I was. I didn't even care what movie, but there was a small part of me that wanted to see this one. Perhaps it could offer crucial advice, or a couple funny lines. I mean, I should at least enjoy looking at Bradley Cooper, right? Eye candy? The fact that this movie even got produced makes me furious.
I mean, I hated it more than I hated the musical version of Wicked=, and I'll complain about my loathing for that garbage dump of bitchfuckery to anyone with ears.
As far as I'm concerned, there were three good things surfing through that film bilge that technically had nothing to do with the movie itself:
Not to go all femi-crazy, but seriously? Are there women out there who behave like the dumbasses in this movie? Obviously they exist, I mean, there were people in the theater who liked the movie. Gyna sides with me on this one. What kind off crap-ass girls are wandering around out there in public? Who are these women? <
Every single female in that movie was a fucking moron. The very thought of living like that, in a perpetual state of crazy, embarrasses me. So immediately after the movie, we went to a bar.
"Fucking seriously, that movie ruined my life," I said to a co-worker this morning. "I don't know what could make me feel better after that."
"What about...a burger from Kuma's?"
Sideways look, small grin. "Well that would be nice."
She gets sing-songy. "And a PBR?"
I nod, smirkishly. "I do loves me some PBR."
"Okay, I got it," she straightens herself up in her chair.
"What if you were eating Kuma's and drinking PBR with 1989 Bruce Willis and watching The Watchmen?”
“Oh my god. That would be—I would—overload—I mean—"
“Hu--"
"--Orgasm.”
I love it when people listen when I say things I love.
...
Monday, February 16, 2009
Who Am I To Mock Your Fun?
Apparently, for Valentines Day, the best love that me and Gyna were able to muster up was from our fathers.
Because Gyna mentioned this VDay phone call from her dad:
"I think someone got you something sweet from your sweetheart for Valentines Day!"
"Is it candy?"
"If you guessed chocolate candy, then you would be correct!"
My Dad drove out here on Sunday to wander around a used bookstore with me and have dinner, which was unfortunately the best date I've ever had. Because seriously, there are few things more satisfying than coffee and the smell of old books.
"Is it sad that our only Valentines are our dads?" Gyna asked me on the way to the VFW.
"I don't think so. Nevermind. Yes."
Some people wouldn't go out with us on Saturday, and gave us sarcastic excuses like, "Oh, I'm sorry, my limo driver has the night off." It's not our fault you live far away.
So we gathered up Xtine, her friend from work, and Bowser ze German, and headed out to the VFW, where we were served cans of PBR by an old veteran named Hot Rod. It was goddamn single hipster central.
Hanging out with ze German is a blast, because his pants are too tight and he dances with abandon and wants to hit on all the American girls.
I wanted to make fun of him so bad for dancing. So. Bad. Because he looked epileptic and painfully Caucasian. I had to hold off. Who am I to mock someone for dancing for fun? Even though no other man in the entire room was doing it? I admire that: the fact that it never even occurred to him to be embarrassed for dancing like a fucking moron. I guess I'm growing up.
But seriously, if you're at a place with Xtine, Gyna, and myself, and there's karaoke? You would dance with abandon too, because you walked in with the three best chicks, and everyone there knows that, you lucky bastard. Because we rock so fucking hard. We always turn into minor celebrities for the night.
Sure. Karaoke celebrities at the VFW. Yeah, we're cool.
Still, I love it when strange guys give me high fives and tell me how awesome I am. Inevitably, though, in the middle of our conversation about the Peter Sellers movie in the background, whatever girl who was clinging to whatever guy before he talked to me at the bar would come barreling over and drape herself around his shoulders and glare at me in victory. So I would smile to take the sting away, and ask her if she was singing, and she would giggle and say, "Oh, no, I don't sing. He knows," she tilts towards him and coils around him tighter. "You were great, though."
Friendly smile. "Thanks." Pick up my beer and start walking away. "You should totally sing though. Who fucking cares that you suck so much? Other than him." Beer salute to the dude, grin at the whore on his shoulders, and back into the fray. This happens what, like, four times? Same conversation, exactly.
Story of my life. Back to the friends, who've gained genuine admirers from the crowd. They just want to be around us, I think. Am I really so full of myself, to think that? To assume we can have that effect on people?
No. After all, it's how we all met each other. Hanging out at a bar, being so impressed by how the others shined that we all kind of grouped together and became excellent, inseparable friends. Is it too hard to imagine that we wouldn't meet other friends that way? That people wouldn't be drawn to that?
I don't think so.
...
Because Gyna mentioned this VDay phone call from her dad:
"I think someone got you something sweet from your sweetheart for Valentines Day!"
"Is it candy?"
"If you guessed chocolate candy, then you would be correct!"
My Dad drove out here on Sunday to wander around a used bookstore with me and have dinner, which was unfortunately the best date I've ever had. Because seriously, there are few things more satisfying than coffee and the smell of old books.
"Is it sad that our only Valentines are our dads?" Gyna asked me on the way to the VFW.
"I don't think so. Nevermind. Yes."
Some people wouldn't go out with us on Saturday, and gave us sarcastic excuses like, "Oh, I'm sorry, my limo driver has the night off." It's not our fault you live far away.
So we gathered up Xtine, her friend from work, and Bowser ze German, and headed out to the VFW, where we were served cans of PBR by an old veteran named Hot Rod. It was goddamn single hipster central.
Hanging out with ze German is a blast, because his pants are too tight and he dances with abandon and wants to hit on all the American girls.
I wanted to make fun of him so bad for dancing. So. Bad. Because he looked epileptic and painfully Caucasian. I had to hold off. Who am I to mock someone for dancing for fun? Even though no other man in the entire room was doing it? I admire that: the fact that it never even occurred to him to be embarrassed for dancing like a fucking moron. I guess I'm growing up.
But seriously, if you're at a place with Xtine, Gyna, and myself, and there's karaoke? You would dance with abandon too, because you walked in with the three best chicks, and everyone there knows that, you lucky bastard. Because we rock so fucking hard. We always turn into minor celebrities for the night.
Sure. Karaoke celebrities at the VFW. Yeah, we're cool.
Still, I love it when strange guys give me high fives and tell me how awesome I am. Inevitably, though, in the middle of our conversation about the Peter Sellers movie in the background, whatever girl who was clinging to whatever guy before he talked to me at the bar would come barreling over and drape herself around his shoulders and glare at me in victory. So I would smile to take the sting away, and ask her if she was singing, and she would giggle and say, "Oh, no, I don't sing. He knows," she tilts towards him and coils around him tighter. "You were great, though."
Friendly smile. "Thanks." Pick up my beer and start walking away. "You should totally sing though. Who fucking cares that you suck so much? Other than him." Beer salute to the dude, grin at the whore on his shoulders, and back into the fray. This happens what, like, four times? Same conversation, exactly.
Story of my life. Back to the friends, who've gained genuine admirers from the crowd. They just want to be around us, I think. Am I really so full of myself, to think that? To assume we can have that effect on people?
No. After all, it's how we all met each other. Hanging out at a bar, being so impressed by how the others shined that we all kind of grouped together and became excellent, inseparable friends. Is it too hard to imagine that we wouldn't meet other friends that way? That people wouldn't be drawn to that?
I don't think so.
...
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Eat My Shorts
I've got one of those hangovers right now where it feels like there's a tiny evil man in my head, tugging the backs of my eyes and punching his foot through the base of my skull.
Stop it with the occipital kickery. Bad imaginary little man. Bad.
Bad PBR. Bad.
Computer screens burn. Ow.
Shady Boyfriend of Ammo, are you listening? You're making me all kinds of piratey and mad. If you didn't act like a dicknose and make Ammo all angry, I would not be this fucking hungover right now.
And because of your mistakes, I no longer have a movie buddy. Didn't think about that, didja? Your friendship with me should be in the top three most important things in your life, right after (1) Ammo and (2) Die Hard. In moments of extreme stupidity you should always think about how your actions effect me.
Because now? I'm not going to see Star Trek with you anymore. OR GI Joe: The Rise of the Cobra.
Booyah. Fucking pwnage.
So there, Shady Boyfriend. Make it up to her good.
...
Stop it with the occipital kickery. Bad imaginary little man. Bad.
Bad PBR. Bad.
Computer screens burn. Ow.
Shady Boyfriend of Ammo, are you listening? You're making me all kinds of piratey and mad. If you didn't act like a dicknose and make Ammo all angry, I would not be this fucking hungover right now.
And because of your mistakes, I no longer have a movie buddy. Didn't think about that, didja? Your friendship with me should be in the top three most important things in your life, right after (1) Ammo and (2) Die Hard. In moments of extreme stupidity you should always think about how your actions effect me.
Because now? I'm not going to see Star Trek with you anymore. OR GI Joe: The Rise of the Cobra.
Booyah. Fucking pwnage.
So there, Shady Boyfriend. Make it up to her good.
...
Friday, January 9, 2009
Schmee
Everyone who doesn't know me in real life and doesn't give a shit about this has to deal with it for one more day, because Schmee is last, but certainly not least. She's got a lot to say. Most likely because out of all of my friends, we've probably had the most adventures together.
By the way, there is a higher probability of me giving up drinking than finding pictures of Schmee, "The Homewrecker," where she is (a) not hugging someone (b) not making "sex face" or (c) not hammered.
LYLAS! (yeah, we do that. Shut up.) Here's what she's got to say (and like I said, there is a lot):
(M.E. steals the phone from her)
M.E. - (wasted) Duuuude. This girl was HOT. She was SO hot. And oh my god SUCH a good kisser.
SCHMEE - Nice job, M.E. Work it.
RASSLES - (from the background) Whatever the girl didn't even have a fucking bra on. I fucking hate you, M.E.
Who was the random girl, you ask? Well, it was our soon to be Whore Captain...Captain Ammo herself. And so began the debauchery that is LBK. It was an era that consisted of theme nights, good singing, bad singing, whore chants, LOTS of liquor, and blacking out. I would try and list some good memories but they were all pretty damn good. Well, that, and the fact that all the blacking out would make for quite a few holes in the stories...Damn those soco lime shots.
POST COLLEGE/NOT LBK BUT STILL KARAOKE
There was a period of time where Rassles, M.E., and I took our karaoke obsession to a whole new level by finding almost every dive bar in the burbs that had karaoke and pretty much becoming regulars. I mean, we actually drove around with the Karaoke Nite Life newspaper in our cars in case we absolutely needed karaoke and it was an off night at our regular bars. Talk about obsessed. Anyway, this is the time period in which some of these memories took place.
The many times we went to Rory's and got free pitchers and shots until after the bar time because the owner was obsessed with me, almost to a creepy degree. He had a girlfriend of course, because this was when I was an unintentional Homewrecker. Oh, and Rassles bought him a hat he wanted once which got us even more free booze. Sweet. In the end we found out they shut the bar down because he was arrested for sexually assaulting some chick after hours. What a classy establishment that was.
The time we went to a bar in the middle of nowhere because M.E. wanted to enter the karaoke rap contest. I sang my first song, tripped over the microphone cord and fell off the stage. a;ljks;kdjf "I'm gonna start calling you the One Beer Wonder...hehe" (Quote from the douchebag DJ that was in love with Rassles and comments like that being the reason she wanted nothing to do with him).
Then me and Rassles ended up at some random dude's apartment (Rassles kept calling him Beaches so we never figured out his real name) where we smoked a bunch of pot and watch Vanilla Sky. At about 7 in the morning we got a taste for McDonald's breakfast and had to eat our food in front of a bunch of people wearing business suits who were on the way to work. Gotta love going out on weekdays. That was probably the weirdest night of my life...
All the nights doing karaoke at Where Else? cuz Where Else? would we go?
Being in love with the old man who sang Sinatra at Sponge Reef.
RANDOM MEMORIES OF, OR WITH YOU THAT MAKE ME LAUGH
The time you slept over at my house in my sister's room and when I woke up you were watching Hook and playing with Tarot cards, hung over as hell.
The time we left Goldies (bar that sells dollar PBR's and lets you play old school Nintendo...Best. Bar. Ever.) and you baffed black bile in your hand...And then stared at it for about 2 minutes before cleaning it off on your shirt. Stop drinking whiskey!
Every Pub Chugga Chugga Choo Choo. Especially the first one where Miles Long did magic tricks and pulled a gerbil out of your boobs. HAH. Everyone better be coming to PCCCC 6 on Saturday!
The time we dominated at flippy cup. Which time do you ask? You're right. I should be more specific because we always dominate. the time when Flips McGee and the Cup Killers got 3rd place out of 40 teams in Chicago, and got everybody at McFaddens to chant, "Bull-shit" because we so obviously won that round. That referee was a dumb bitch.
All the nights we made stroganoff and watched Coupling. "Ohhh, Jeffrey..."
All the times we've dominated the jukebox and made people listen to Chicago and Foreigner.
The time we dressed up as the Ghostbusters for Halloween and you made awesome proton packs for us out of Carson Pirie Scott boxes. And then, you had a giant pink care bear tell you that "he's hit a girl before and he'd do it again." All because we kicked his ass in flippy cup.
Alright, I'm gonna cut myself off right there because this is becoming the longest blog on earth. I've been slaving over it for 3 days. And now I have to go back and edit the shit out of it to make sure I'm satisfied. This is why I do not blog. It stresses me out. And I feel like I'm doing homework.
In closing, I would just like to say thank you, Rassles. Thank you for being my friend. Thank you for always being there. Thank you for introducing me to my boyfriend, and Orazio's, and The Can, and Neighbors, and all of your Ville friends. And thank you for not getting mad that I hang out with all those people, all those places more than you do. Oh wait, you do get mad about that. Most of all, thank you for being you, because without you, I would not be the person I am today. I hope you think your present is blog-tastic and you have a Happy Biffy Baffy Birthday.
Love,
Schmee
...
By the way, there is a higher probability of me giving up drinking than finding pictures of Schmee, "The Homewrecker," where she is (a) not hugging someone (b) not making "sex face" or (c) not hammered.
LYLAS! (yeah, we do that. Shut up.) Here's what she's got to say (and like I said, there is a lot):
I’ve decided to follow Ammo’s lead and do a list of Top However Many Memories I Can Think Of Involving Rassles. Well, that’s how it’s going to start at least. Chances are this blog will be all over the place. Deal with it.
COLLEGE
1. The time we drove around for hours smoking cigarettes to “Freebird” and then changing the lyrics to make up our own song about cigarettes. It went something like…"Man, I neeeeed a ciga- reeeeeee-eeeeeeeette. OhhhhOh ciga-reeeeeeeee-eeeeeeeeeette" Don’t lie. You all just tried to sing it in your head and it was magical….
2. The time we sang “Tiny Dancer” at the Bullpen and we made up dance moves. Then we realized the song is about 10 minutes long and we looked like idiots. Lame.
3. The time the Bullpen got raided because there was a wet t-shirt contest (which Emi won even with a blue t-shirt on. What a hooker.) and I had to hide in the bathroom because I wasn’t 21 yet. Rassles brought me beer and talked to me over the stall until the cops had cleared out. That’s when I knew I had a true friend…
4. The time Fraya and I showed up at The Shithole (Rassles’ house her senior year of college…name is self explanatory) after about 14 hours of drinking (damn, the OZO’s and their Octoberfest) desperately needing help from Rassles because I had taken a nasty spill (YEAH parentheses) and hit my head on the curb. Instead of helping me she broke out the video camera and got footage of me trying to have a conversation with the tomato in my Wendy’s hamburger. Could we say life-ruiner???
5. The time we had a massive flippy cup tournament at The Shithole, filled with team chanting and everything. The sad part is that nobody can remember whose team won because we were all so hammered. It was definitely either mine or Rassles’ team though.
6. The morning/afternoon after the flippy cup tournament when we tried to solve The Mystery of the Inflatable Snowman. Afkjls;dfklaskdl. That deserves a blog all to itself. Git er done Ross.
7. Later that same day when I got home and checked my messages I had one from Rassles that said, verbatim, “I was fuckin HAMMERED last night. HAM—MURRED. I puked. And it looked like thousand island dressing…
8. Another one of the many times Rassles’ broke out the video camera was after a drunken night at the Bullpen when everyone that was at the bar came back to The Shithole (Are we noticing a pattern here?) and people started taking turns sledding down the stairs in a laundry basket….Classic.
9. One of our many movie nights, which were basically just an excuse for us not to do homework, she brought over the movie Secretary insisting that it would be great because she loves James Spader. So we watched it, blushing and laughing awkwardly throughout. “Cream potatoes! Four peas! ….edward!!!”
10. The time Rassles came back to Augie for my 21st birthday and she recorded every drink/shot I had on a piece of cardboard from a Coors light box. And when I puked after the 20th one (first and only time I’ve ever puked from drinking and only the second time I’ve ever puked in my life. I know, I rule.) we went back to Bobbay’s house where I was forced to take a hit of weed as my 21st “drink/shot”. Then we proceeded to watch the “you got a fuckin dart in your neck!” part from Old School about 10 times…while laughing uncontrollably of course. I feel tired.
11. The countless hours we spent with the Animal Book taking the quiz for ourselves, and for others, over and over and over again. And the fact that she still talks to me even though I’m a sea lion who supposedly “has conversations that lack substance and logical grounding.” ARH,ARH,ARH. Life ruined again.
12. COLLEGE… NO PARENTS… BURRRRRR
LBK
One of the first times Rassles ever went to Live Band Karaoke she was with Emi. Sadly, I was not there. But I did get quite the phone call from a pissed off Rassles in the middle of the night. The conversation went a little like this….
SCHMEE - What the hell happened? Why are you so mad?
RASSLES - Fucking Emi makes me come out to fuckin live band with her and then leaves me in the fuckin corner by myself all night while she makes out with some fuckin random girl.
(keep in mind, these are the days before Emi was a full blown lez. As far as we knew she still dated dudes but just made out with our lesbian friend Kate from time to time. Oh how things have changed…)
Cont.
SCHMEE - Well that’s interes—
RASSLES - (Interrupting) It’s fucking bullshit! I had to sit there while every dude at the bar came up to me asking if they were my friends and what their deal was. And the---
(M.E. steals the phone from her)
M.E. - (wasted) Duuuude. This girl was HOT. She was SO hot. And oh my god SUCH a good kisser.
SCHMEE - Nice job, M.E. Work it.
RASSLES - (from the background) Whatever the girl didn't even have a fucking bra on. I fucking hate you, M.E.
Who was the random girl, you ask? Well, it was our soon to be Whore Captain...Captain Ammo herself. And so began the debauchery that is LBK. It was an era that consisted of theme nights, good singing, bad singing, whore chants, LOTS of liquor, and blacking out. I would try and list some good memories but they were all pretty damn good. Well, that, and the fact that all the blacking out would make for quite a few holes in the stories...Damn those soco lime shots.
POST COLLEGE/NOT LBK BUT STILL KARAOKE
There was a period of time where Rassles, M.E., and I took our karaoke obsession to a whole new level by finding almost every dive bar in the burbs that had karaoke and pretty much becoming regulars. I mean, we actually drove around with the Karaoke Nite Life newspaper in our cars in case we absolutely needed karaoke and it was an off night at our regular bars. Talk about obsessed. Anyway, this is the time period in which some of these memories took place.
The many times we went to Rory's and got free pitchers and shots until after the bar time because the owner was obsessed with me, almost to a creepy degree. He had a girlfriend of course, because this was when I was an unintentional Homewrecker. Oh, and Rassles bought him a hat he wanted once which got us even more free booze. Sweet. In the end we found out they shut the bar down because he was arrested for sexually assaulting some chick after hours. What a classy establishment that was.
The time we went to a bar in the middle of nowhere because M.E. wanted to enter the karaoke rap contest. I sang my first song, tripped over the microphone cord and fell off the stage. a;ljks;kdjf "I'm gonna start calling you the One Beer Wonder...hehe" (Quote from the douchebag DJ that was in love with Rassles and comments like that being the reason she wanted nothing to do with him).
Then me and Rassles ended up at some random dude's apartment (Rassles kept calling him Beaches so we never figured out his real name) where we smoked a bunch of pot and watch Vanilla Sky. At about 7 in the morning we got a taste for McDonald's breakfast and had to eat our food in front of a bunch of people wearing business suits who were on the way to work. Gotta love going out on weekdays. That was probably the weirdest night of my life...
All the nights doing karaoke at Where Else? cuz Where Else? would we go?
Being in love with the old man who sang Sinatra at Sponge Reef.
RANDOM MEMORIES OF, OR WITH YOU THAT MAKE ME LAUGH
The time you slept over at my house in my sister's room and when I woke up you were watching Hook and playing with Tarot cards, hung over as hell.
The time we left Goldies (bar that sells dollar PBR's and lets you play old school Nintendo...Best. Bar. Ever.) and you baffed black bile in your hand...And then stared at it for about 2 minutes before cleaning it off on your shirt. Stop drinking whiskey!
Every Pub Chugga Chugga Choo Choo. Especially the first one where Miles Long did magic tricks and pulled a gerbil out of your boobs. HAH. Everyone better be coming to PCCCC 6 on Saturday!
The time we dominated at flippy cup. Which time do you ask? You're right. I should be more specific because we always dominate. the time when Flips McGee and the Cup Killers got 3rd place out of 40 teams in Chicago, and got everybody at McFaddens to chant, "Bull-shit" because we so obviously won that round. That referee was a dumb bitch.
All the nights we made stroganoff and watched Coupling. "Ohhh, Jeffrey..."
All the times we've dominated the jukebox and made people listen to Chicago and Foreigner.
The time we dressed up as the Ghostbusters for Halloween and you made awesome proton packs for us out of Carson Pirie Scott boxes. And then, you had a giant pink care bear tell you that "he's hit a girl before and he'd do it again." All because we kicked his ass in flippy cup.
Alright, I'm gonna cut myself off right there because this is becoming the longest blog on earth. I've been slaving over it for 3 days. And now I have to go back and edit the shit out of it to make sure I'm satisfied. This is why I do not blog. It stresses me out. And I feel like I'm doing homework.
In closing, I would just like to say thank you, Rassles. Thank you for being my friend. Thank you for always being there. Thank you for introducing me to my boyfriend, and Orazio's, and The Can, and Neighbors, and all of your Ville friends. And thank you for not getting mad that I hang out with all those people, all those places more than you do. Oh wait, you do get mad about that. Most of all, thank you for being you, because without you, I would not be the person I am today. I hope you think your present is blog-tastic and you have a Happy Biffy Baffy Birthday.
Love,
Schmee
...
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
MoLinder
First order of business: It is my birthday.
Second order of business: Work is lame.
Third: Today, the Whore to grace your screen and write about me is MoLinder, the roommate. She was never given a "name" in the quotation mark sense, because she's just always going to be MoLinder, and nothing can change that.
She fucking loves it.
And now, without further ado...her words about me:
Ross would like me to write something about her as a birthday gift. I'm delighted to oblige as I am riding the broke train (choo-fucking-choo) and can't get her anything tangible anyway.
It's taken me a few days to think about what to write. As I was explaining to Gyna, most of my stories of Ross take place while I've been hammered (see: drunk blog, war of war blog and pretty much any comment I leave) and any memories I may have span the spectrum between slightly fuzzy to non-existent (see: drunk blog, war of war blog and pretty much any comment I leave). It's been hard trying to come up with something awesome so I've decided to write about all the things I've learned from Ross:
The Watchmen is fantastic as is the Fables series
So is the translation she has of "The Three Musketeers"-it is that fucking good!
PBR is a decent beer when you can't afford Stella Artois (she's my woman) – for realsies
Even after explaining in great detail how I don't want to get involved in another TV series after the 24 debacle (long story), she still got me hooked on Heroes, Battlestar Galactica, 30 Rock, Firefly, Trailer Park Boys etc. Although I would like to interject that I have made her addicted to the douchebags that dominate any sort of paranormal activity on TV. Woo Zach!
She's the only other girl I know that loves the Die Hard movies as much as me. When she called to ask me if I wanted to go see "Live Free or Die Hard" I replied, "Yipee-Kai-Yay-Motherfucker". Oh yeah, dude, fuck Bonnie Bedelia. I hate that whore. I would like to add that this is where we morphed from friendly acquaintances to friends. cuz who else love John Mclane as much us?
Mrs. Grass is the best thing ever. as is the 7up she brought home for me after a rough night/morning with M.E.
She's totally changed my impression of people who belonged in sororities in college in that they aren't all suckers who pay for their friends. (probably because I'm friends with most of her "sisters")
my myspace quote for quite some time said the following: "goddamnit ross, it is 6 in the morning. you have ruined my life" I would like to point out that this quote was on a monday/tuesday or some sort of workday. all I know is that I called in sick to work. but she is the eternal worker bee and faced her cubicle drone lifestyle.
she is usually someone that is one the same page as me, movie wise, until she inflicted "Teen Wolf 2" on me. not as good as the original. and faux Stiles sucks big fat donkey balls. so fucking lame. she almost loses her cool points with me but I love "Tremors" so who am I to talk? (fuck yeah Kevin Bacon! and gun toting Reba McIntyre dominates) I have insisted that we are watching "the usual suspects" after this crap ass movie viewing to instill good taste on her. she is giving me the retard face. I don't know if Kaiser Soze can help her.
oh yeah. so I have been watching the history channel and the seven deadly sins have been showcased all week. ross and I have been dueling to who breaks the most (me, you asshole) but I would like to point out that she dominates in the sin of Pride, hence this goddamn blog. you are a dirty whore.
I think I might win this one.
Happy Birthday!
...
Second order of business: Work is lame.
Third: Today, the Whore to grace your screen and write about me is MoLinder, the roommate. She was never given a "name" in the quotation mark sense, because she's just always going to be MoLinder, and nothing can change that.
She fucking loves it.
And now, without further ado...her words about me:
Ross would like me to write something about her as a birthday gift. I'm delighted to oblige as I am riding the broke train (choo-fucking-choo) and can't get her anything tangible anyway.
It's taken me a few days to think about what to write. As I was explaining to Gyna, most of my stories of Ross take place while I've been hammered (see: drunk blog, war of war blog and pretty much any comment I leave) and any memories I may have span the spectrum between slightly fuzzy to non-existent (see: drunk blog, war of war blog and pretty much any comment I leave). It's been hard trying to come up with something awesome so I've decided to write about all the things I've learned from Ross:
The Watchmen is fantastic as is the Fables series
So is the translation she has of "The Three Musketeers"-it is that fucking good!
PBR is a decent beer when you can't afford Stella Artois (she's my woman) – for realsies
Even after explaining in great detail how I don't want to get involved in another TV series after the 24 debacle (long story), she still got me hooked on Heroes, Battlestar Galactica, 30 Rock, Firefly, Trailer Park Boys etc. Although I would like to interject that I have made her addicted to the douchebags that dominate any sort of paranormal activity on TV. Woo Zach!
She's the only other girl I know that loves the Die Hard movies as much as me. When she called to ask me if I wanted to go see "Live Free or Die Hard" I replied, "Yipee-Kai-Yay-Motherfucker". Oh yeah, dude, fuck Bonnie Bedelia. I hate that whore. I would like to add that this is where we morphed from friendly acquaintances to friends. cuz who else love John Mclane as much us?
Mrs. Grass is the best thing ever. as is the 7up she brought home for me after a rough night/morning with M.E.
She's totally changed my impression of people who belonged in sororities in college in that they aren't all suckers who pay for their friends. (probably because I'm friends with most of her "sisters")
my myspace quote for quite some time said the following: "goddamnit ross, it is 6 in the morning. you have ruined my life" I would like to point out that this quote was on a monday/tuesday or some sort of workday. all I know is that I called in sick to work. but she is the eternal worker bee and faced her cubicle drone lifestyle.
she is usually someone that is one the same page as me, movie wise, until she inflicted "Teen Wolf 2" on me. not as good as the original. and faux Stiles sucks big fat donkey balls. so fucking lame. she almost loses her cool points with me but I love "Tremors" so who am I to talk? (fuck yeah Kevin Bacon! and gun toting Reba McIntyre dominates) I have insisted that we are watching "the usual suspects" after this crap ass movie viewing to instill good taste on her. she is giving me the retard face. I don't know if Kaiser Soze can help her.
oh yeah. so I have been watching the history channel and the seven deadly sins have been showcased all week. ross and I have been dueling to who breaks the most (me, you asshole) but I would like to point out that she dominates in the sin of Pride, hence this goddamn blog. you are a dirty whore.
I think I might win this one.
Happy Birthday!
...
Friday, December 12, 2008
There Are, In Fact, Multiple Row Sevens Throughout Soldier Field
So when my boss fast-talked me into accepting those football tickets, he spouted, "Row Seven" in between many adjectives and verbs and other forms of grammatical syntax that I've forgotten, because I ignore my boss as much as I can, as I did all of my English teachers.
Usually when someone donates tickets to my office (for all of the hard work we do servicing the community), they're phenomenal, and fuck yeah Bears game.
I soon remembered that there are, in fact, multiple Row Sevens throughout Soldier Field, and we could be in any one of them. This did not concern me.
One thing you should know about me: I don't really have a winter coat. There's this nice-ish looking camel coat I wear to work, with lining that rips a little more every single time I lift my arms. Not wearing that to a Bears game.
Let the layering of the sweatshirts commence. For extra luck with the cold, I topped it all off with my Homer Brewing Company sweatshirt, because I like beer, and it kept me warm when I was in Alaska. But most importantly, because I wanted the opportunity to mention, over and over again, that one time I went to Alaska, and I bought this sweatshirt and a growler of Red Knot Scottish Ale and drank it on a rocky beach where the sun rarely sets.
Thank god I've gotten that out of the way.
So yeah. We arrive at the game, and our spectacular Row Seven Seats are in Row Seven of the upper deck. Not only that, but they're in a corner facing goddamn Lake Michigan, and there be biting winds. And I be cold as all fuckery.
But the game was excellent. My co-workers ditched me at half time and left me drinking and sitting alone. About halfway through the third quarter some of the neighboring Phase 4 Fans gave up (come on, guys. Ten degrees? Nothin.) and pretty soon I had a radius of four empty chairs around me. I was not warm. But was I going to let a little cold front scare me away? Hell no.
And then I got very lonely.
I could survive the dropping temperatures in the Fortress of Solitude, but never its ever-desolate name.
So I got the fuck out of there. They had stopped selling beer anyway.
Then I met up with Gyna, who has been in California all week, and we went to a bar with a vast array of desecrated coloring books, where nearly every page of Spiderman, Biblical characters, My Little Ponies, Anakin Skywalker, and eerie Precious Moments children contains visible hand-drawn genitals.
So we whipped out our pens and helped them finish off all of the pictures they missed. Besides, the bartenders threatened to take away our PBR if we didn't draw dicks on stuff.
...
Usually when someone donates tickets to my office (for all of the hard work we do servicing the community), they're phenomenal, and fuck yeah Bears game.
I soon remembered that there are, in fact, multiple Row Sevens throughout Soldier Field, and we could be in any one of them. This did not concern me.
One thing you should know about me: I don't really have a winter coat. There's this nice-ish looking camel coat I wear to work, with lining that rips a little more every single time I lift my arms. Not wearing that to a Bears game.
Let the layering of the sweatshirts commence. For extra luck with the cold, I topped it all off with my Homer Brewing Company sweatshirt, because I like beer, and it kept me warm when I was in Alaska. But most importantly, because I wanted the opportunity to mention, over and over again, that one time I went to Alaska, and I bought this sweatshirt and a growler of Red Knot Scottish Ale and drank it on a rocky beach where the sun rarely sets.
Thank god I've gotten that out of the way.
So yeah. We arrive at the game, and our spectacular Row Seven Seats are in Row Seven of the upper deck. Not only that, but they're in a corner facing goddamn Lake Michigan, and there be biting winds. And I be cold as all fuckery.
But the game was excellent. My co-workers ditched me at half time and left me drinking and sitting alone. About halfway through the third quarter some of the neighboring Phase 4 Fans gave up (come on, guys. Ten degrees? Nothin.) and pretty soon I had a radius of four empty chairs around me. I was not warm. But was I going to let a little cold front scare me away? Hell no.
And then I got very lonely.
I could survive the dropping temperatures in the Fortress of Solitude, but never its ever-desolate name.
So I got the fuck out of there. They had stopped selling beer anyway.
Then I met up with Gyna, who has been in California all week, and we went to a bar with a vast array of desecrated coloring books, where nearly every page of Spiderman, Biblical characters, My Little Ponies, Anakin Skywalker, and eerie Precious Moments children contains visible hand-drawn genitals.
So we whipped out our pens and helped them finish off all of the pictures they missed. Besides, the bartenders threatened to take away our PBR if we didn't draw dicks on stuff.
...
Monday, July 28, 2008
I Am So Not Allowed To Do Weddings
Had yet another wedding this weekend, and I am so not allowed to do weddings anymore.
In my drunken stupor, I had the audacity to compare myself to Pagliaccio, which is just fucking stupid because I'm not a clown who loves his cheating wife, and in fact have never been in love, cheated on, or married, so I can totally relate to his heartache. I just felt his operatic fictional unhappiness was relevant to my nonfictional unhappiness.
Weddings are lame, because there are hook-ups abound, and I inevitably will wake up alone in my car in the hotel parking lot with tears on my face and a sweltering can of PBR in the cup holder.
Somehow.
And The Dude Who Blows My Mind With His Face was there, laughing, hanging out, being all honest, "Rossi, you are hilarious, let's dance, and later I will sleep with your friend. Har har." And then I say something like, "Shut up Dude, you are so unfair and delight in my misery," except with much less finesse and more swear words and giggles, and he smiles, winks, spins me and says, "I know." I hate/love ambivalence.
The Circus makes my life difficult. It's hard to stay sane around them, because by nature the Circus is aggressive, hilarious, completely bipolar and ultimately the greatest show on earth. Around us, the most rational of humans require high doses of Lithium.
For example, before the wedding, the groom sat down his parents and warned them about the kind of riff-raff his future wife ran wild with in college. He was honestly afraid his mom would have a heart attack.
It's not that we party like rock stars, get all coked out and have group orgies, because we're not like that, not even remotely.
I think it's just that we're all so fucking in love with each other that our pheromones magnetize and go crashing into each other in mushroom blasts. The tension immediately rises, and strangers can see it hovering in front of them, and they're either automatically infected and drawn to us or they run away scared, incapable of comprehending all the laughing and living going on around them.
It's like constantly rubbing your feet on the carpet and giving everyone little joy zaps, and some of them taste it and know it's delicious and vital, while others get pissed at you for being so electric.
And the Boyfriend Squad is doing well, being the mates of the Circus. They're all gay for each other too, and should prolly take camping trips together where they make out and give each other purple nurples and talk about belt buckles, Jager, Nascar, and their crazy Circus girlfriends. But even though they went off and did their secret Boyfriend Squad shots without me, they always grabbed me to head outside for a smoke, thank god, before going back to their girlfriends. As much as I love being drugged by the estrogen of the Circus, I can't handle it for too long.
Then I watched my single friends pair off with other singles and the taken friends couple up, and as always, I was left alone. I don't pair off, ever. So I cry. This was a much more difficult cry than at the last wedding, because last time I was crying for others, but this time...this time I was crying for me. It was fueled completely by jealousy and amplified by the manic first eighty percent of the night. But because of the damn wonder of the Circus, it crashed like internal World War Three.
Being emotional in public is becoming a habit of mine, so it's time to suppress it. I have to shove it deeper inside until it never shows, because I've already spent years establishing myself as someone who laughs at the sentimental and cries at nothing.
That's not very healthy, is it? I embarrass myself.
So I will take out my aggression this week on SHARK WEEK.
...
In my drunken stupor, I had the audacity to compare myself to Pagliaccio, which is just fucking stupid because I'm not a clown who loves his cheating wife, and in fact have never been in love, cheated on, or married, so I can totally relate to his heartache. I just felt his operatic fictional unhappiness was relevant to my nonfictional unhappiness.
Weddings are lame, because there are hook-ups abound, and I inevitably will wake up alone in my car in the hotel parking lot with tears on my face and a sweltering can of PBR in the cup holder.
Somehow.
And The Dude Who Blows My Mind With His Face was there, laughing, hanging out, being all honest, "Rossi, you are hilarious, let's dance, and later I will sleep with your friend. Har har." And then I say something like, "Shut up Dude, you are so unfair and delight in my misery," except with much less finesse and more swear words and giggles, and he smiles, winks, spins me and says, "I know." I hate/love ambivalence.
The Circus makes my life difficult. It's hard to stay sane around them, because by nature the Circus is aggressive, hilarious, completely bipolar and ultimately the greatest show on earth. Around us, the most rational of humans require high doses of Lithium.
For example, before the wedding, the groom sat down his parents and warned them about the kind of riff-raff his future wife ran wild with in college. He was honestly afraid his mom would have a heart attack.
It's not that we party like rock stars, get all coked out and have group orgies, because we're not like that, not even remotely.
I think it's just that we're all so fucking in love with each other that our pheromones magnetize and go crashing into each other in mushroom blasts. The tension immediately rises, and strangers can see it hovering in front of them, and they're either automatically infected and drawn to us or they run away scared, incapable of comprehending all the laughing and living going on around them.
It's like constantly rubbing your feet on the carpet and giving everyone little joy zaps, and some of them taste it and know it's delicious and vital, while others get pissed at you for being so electric.
And the Boyfriend Squad is doing well, being the mates of the Circus. They're all gay for each other too, and should prolly take camping trips together where they make out and give each other purple nurples and talk about belt buckles, Jager, Nascar, and their crazy Circus girlfriends. But even though they went off and did their secret Boyfriend Squad shots without me, they always grabbed me to head outside for a smoke, thank god, before going back to their girlfriends. As much as I love being drugged by the estrogen of the Circus, I can't handle it for too long.
Then I watched my single friends pair off with other singles and the taken friends couple up, and as always, I was left alone. I don't pair off, ever. So I cry. This was a much more difficult cry than at the last wedding, because last time I was crying for others, but this time...this time I was crying for me. It was fueled completely by jealousy and amplified by the manic first eighty percent of the night. But because of the damn wonder of the Circus, it crashed like internal World War Three.
Being emotional in public is becoming a habit of mine, so it's time to suppress it. I have to shove it deeper inside until it never shows, because I've already spent years establishing myself as someone who laughs at the sentimental and cries at nothing.
That's not very healthy, is it? I embarrass myself.
So I will take out my aggression this week on SHARK WEEK.
...
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Montage a la Me
So Ginny over at Praying To Darwin did this flickr thing, and you know what? Me too. I am a follower. I follow. I even started this blog off with a sentence frighteningly similar to the opening sentence of her blog.
Basically, go to flickr. Type the answer to each question in the search engine, and choose an image from that first page of results and paste it onto the corresponding number on this mosaic thing.
And this is my photo survey. Which is neat.<
What is your first name?
What is your favorite food?
What high school did you attend?
What is your favorite color?
Who is your celebrity crush?
What is your favorite drink?
Where would you go on your dream vacation?
What is your favorite desert?
What do you want to be when you grow up?
What do you love most in life?
Choose one word to describe you.
Your blog’s name?
And now, for what these photos reveal about me.
What is your first name? Irrelevant. I'm assuming that this is a picture of a seal on a beach in July. But seriously? Check it out. Pink sun. Like the dream, which I'm not going to link again. No, fuck that, I'm linking. Nutsy cuckoo.
What is your favorite food? Swordfish. Thought I was going to say garlic, didn't you? It was close. Runners up are garlic, peanutbutter, stroganoff, and burgers from Kuma's.
What high school did you attend? Naperville Central. This yellow billowy guy has nothing to do with high school and everything to do with the fact that CrazyLiz thinks towers billow.
What is your favorite color? Green.
Who is your celebrity crush? Jack Nicholson. This was hard. I mean, Seth Green? Clive Owen? Bruce Willis? Elliot Gould in 1973? Jeff Bridges in 1988? Christian Bale? Seth Green seems out of place in there, I know. But I've had a crush on him since, like, 1997.
What is your favorite drink? PBR. Does it taste the best? No. Is it cheap as fuck? Yes. Does it make you invincible? No. Does it make you think you are invincible? Yes.
Where would you go on your dream vacation? Finland. Australia, Egypt, and China are right behind, but right now it's Finland.
What is your favorite desert? carrot cake
What do you want to be when you grow up? A superhero. But now I want to marry that guy.
What do you love most in life? Laughter. The seal is happy. Yay seal. Two seals today...I should call Schmee. Her conversations lack substance and logical grounding.
Choose one word to describe you. Indecisive. You have no idea how long it took me to decide on that word.
Your blog’s name? I used my name...Rassles. This dog = rasslin'.
..
Basically, go to flickr. Type the answer to each question in the search engine, and choose an image from that first page of results and paste it onto the corresponding number on this mosaic thing.
And this is my photo survey. Which is neat.<
What is your first name?
What is your favorite food?
What high school did you attend?
What is your favorite color?
Who is your celebrity crush?
What is your favorite drink?
Where would you go on your dream vacation?
What is your favorite desert?
What do you want to be when you grow up?
What do you love most in life?
Choose one word to describe you.
Your blog’s name?
And now, for what these photos reveal about me.
What is your first name? Irrelevant. I'm assuming that this is a picture of a seal on a beach in July. But seriously? Check it out. Pink sun. Like the dream, which I'm not going to link again. No, fuck that, I'm linking. Nutsy cuckoo.
What is your favorite food? Swordfish. Thought I was going to say garlic, didn't you? It was close. Runners up are garlic, peanutbutter, stroganoff, and burgers from Kuma's.
What high school did you attend? Naperville Central. This yellow billowy guy has nothing to do with high school and everything to do with the fact that CrazyLiz thinks towers billow.
What is your favorite color? Green.
Who is your celebrity crush? Jack Nicholson. This was hard. I mean, Seth Green? Clive Owen? Bruce Willis? Elliot Gould in 1973? Jeff Bridges in 1988? Christian Bale? Seth Green seems out of place in there, I know. But I've had a crush on him since, like, 1997.
What is your favorite drink? PBR. Does it taste the best? No. Is it cheap as fuck? Yes. Does it make you invincible? No. Does it make you think you are invincible? Yes.
Where would you go on your dream vacation? Finland. Australia, Egypt, and China are right behind, but right now it's Finland.
What is your favorite desert? carrot cake
What do you want to be when you grow up? A superhero. But now I want to marry that guy.
What do you love most in life? Laughter. The seal is happy. Yay seal. Two seals today...I should call Schmee. Her conversations lack substance and logical grounding.
Choose one word to describe you. Indecisive. You have no idea how long it took me to decide on that word.
Your blog’s name? I used my name...Rassles. This dog = rasslin'.
..
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
This is my goat song.
Several years ago, some friends and I played dress up at a bar and became superheroes for a random Thursday, complete with handmade fabric logos. There was Little Red, because she was, well, little and red and often underestimated. There was the Captain of the Whores, our undisputed ringleader in crime and punishment. We had a Homewrecker and a BFF, since their relationships with guys seemed to fall into those respective categories. And then there was The Pink Bat, who swung both ways, and actually carried a pink bat. They rightfully dubbed me The Life Ruiner.
If you are introduced to me, your life is ruined. I just ruined it, just there. Did you feel it? It might take a while to creep in. You will.
That's no exaggeration, either. I am always comfort and tension, right and wrong, fixed and broken, hero and villain, romance and satire, Atticus and Yossarian.
Breathe. Okay.
On many occasions, I've had good friends--nay, best friends--tell me that I would never be invited to their wedding should they ever choose to get married.
Why the fuck not?
Is it because I spend half the wedding sitting in the parking lot drinking PBR out of the trunk of my car?
Is it because I yell things at Wools, the bride, like, "So is everyone congratulating you? Because I'm not fucking gonna. So there. You know what? Fuck you and your wedding, and your 'getting married' or whatever. Oh, I'm so happy for you, you goddamn slutbag," and the like? Wools thought it was hilare.
Is it because I spend my time watching my friends destroy their lives and do nothing to intervene, and instead sit there and laugh and enjoy the show so I can mercilessly mock them the next day?
Is it because I regretted my choice to remain uninvolved? The begatting began, and I sat in the back yard of my friends' house and sobbed for hours with a Siberian husky for company, "Why can't we just be like dogs? You guys--you know what's up. Fuckin' dogs are the geniuseses of the fuckin' secrets of like, life. You know, Ozzie? Ozzie? LOOK AT ME. Even you won't look at me. Fuckin' dog. You know, don't you? You know I'm a horrible person and you hate me just like I hate myself."
When I stop friends from doing something they'll regret, I get yelled at, insulted, and ignored for months at a time. Especially when I'm willing to go to extremes. So I suffer the criticism, and I'm not sorry at all, because I know that I always do what I can, and as long as I try, I won't regret.
Of course, I'm asked to never again intervene, never to enter business which is not my own. I'm told that I can't control people, can't change people, that I'm not God. As if they truly believed my intentions were to suit some personal agenda (which of course is true if you count "wanting my friends to be happy" as a personal agenda).
So I don't get involved. And I ignore it, nearly encourage it, and boil in turmoil for sitting back and watching.
I can't sit back and watch, I just can't. I'm not capable of it. Not anymore. I must get involved, I must try to fix things, I must try to save them from whatever it is they're doing to hurt themselves and the people around them.
Perhaps this sounds far more drastic than necessary. Is it really, though? We all know I have a fixing-things complex.
But here's the where I get all Joseph Heller: once I do as they ask and keep my nose out of their affairs, everyone is upset that I didn't do anything.
I hear, "why did you let that happen?"
So when I enter business which is not my own, I'm unwelcome and asked never to return. Then when I'm not there to stop the insanity, I "let it happen." Logic, right? Because the person behaving like an idiot is not to blame.
Although that could be an unfair reaction, they're entirely correct. My hypocrisy was intentional, their idiocy was drunken. I did let it happen.
It is my responsibility to watch out for my friends. Likewise, it is their responsibility to watch out for me. Although sometimes I feel like some friends are blind, they'll learn to spot when I need help, just as I'm learning to notice when they need it. That's the point of friendship.
The obvious rebuttal is, of course: Ross, you can't be responsible for all of your friends' stupid decisions. People must own it themselves.
Well, no fucking duh. They need to be able to fail to grow, to learn on their own, to support themselves. They will never be able to do things for themselves if others are constantly doing it for them.
But once you've realized that they've given up on themselves, what kind of friend would you be if you watched it happen, and did nothing to prove that you still believe in them? And where do you draw that line between their autonomy and their dependence?
And this is how I will ruin your life:
As my friend, that line doesn't exist. Your business is my business once you've allowed me a glimpse. I will point out when you do stupid shit, and I will tell you why it was stupid, and make you feel like crap. Then I will try to help you fix it, and I won't be all nicey-nice once I've niced enough niceness. You have to admit the problem, and then we have to shoulder it together.
If you cannot claim responsibility for the people you love, what is the point of loving them at all?
...
If you are introduced to me, your life is ruined. I just ruined it, just there. Did you feel it? It might take a while to creep in. You will.
That's no exaggeration, either. I am always comfort and tension, right and wrong, fixed and broken, hero and villain, romance and satire, Atticus and Yossarian.
Breathe. Okay.
On many occasions, I've had good friends--nay, best friends--tell me that I would never be invited to their wedding should they ever choose to get married.
Why the fuck not?
Is it because I spend half the wedding sitting in the parking lot drinking PBR out of the trunk of my car?
Is it because I yell things at Wools, the bride, like, "So is everyone congratulating you? Because I'm not fucking gonna. So there. You know what? Fuck you and your wedding, and your 'getting married' or whatever. Oh, I'm so happy for you, you goddamn slutbag," and the like? Wools thought it was hilare.
Is it because I spend my time watching my friends destroy their lives and do nothing to intervene, and instead sit there and laugh and enjoy the show so I can mercilessly mock them the next day?
Is it because I regretted my choice to remain uninvolved? The begatting began, and I sat in the back yard of my friends' house and sobbed for hours with a Siberian husky for company, "Why can't we just be like dogs? You guys--you know what's up. Fuckin' dogs are the geniuseses of the fuckin' secrets of like, life. You know, Ozzie? Ozzie? LOOK AT ME. Even you won't look at me. Fuckin' dog. You know, don't you? You know I'm a horrible person and you hate me just like I hate myself."
When I stop friends from doing something they'll regret, I get yelled at, insulted, and ignored for months at a time. Especially when I'm willing to go to extremes. So I suffer the criticism, and I'm not sorry at all, because I know that I always do what I can, and as long as I try, I won't regret.
Of course, I'm asked to never again intervene, never to enter business which is not my own. I'm told that I can't control people, can't change people, that I'm not God. As if they truly believed my intentions were to suit some personal agenda (which of course is true if you count "wanting my friends to be happy" as a personal agenda).
So I don't get involved. And I ignore it, nearly encourage it, and boil in turmoil for sitting back and watching.
I can't sit back and watch, I just can't. I'm not capable of it. Not anymore. I must get involved, I must try to fix things, I must try to save them from whatever it is they're doing to hurt themselves and the people around them.
Perhaps this sounds far more drastic than necessary. Is it really, though? We all know I have a fixing-things complex.
But here's the where I get all Joseph Heller: once I do as they ask and keep my nose out of their affairs, everyone is upset that I didn't do anything.
I hear, "why did you let that happen?"
So when I enter business which is not my own, I'm unwelcome and asked never to return. Then when I'm not there to stop the insanity, I "let it happen." Logic, right? Because the person behaving like an idiot is not to blame.
Although that could be an unfair reaction, they're entirely correct. My hypocrisy was intentional, their idiocy was drunken. I did let it happen.
It is my responsibility to watch out for my friends. Likewise, it is their responsibility to watch out for me. Although sometimes I feel like some friends are blind, they'll learn to spot when I need help, just as I'm learning to notice when they need it. That's the point of friendship.
The obvious rebuttal is, of course: Ross, you can't be responsible for all of your friends' stupid decisions. People must own it themselves.
Well, no fucking duh. They need to be able to fail to grow, to learn on their own, to support themselves. They will never be able to do things for themselves if others are constantly doing it for them.
But once you've realized that they've given up on themselves, what kind of friend would you be if you watched it happen, and did nothing to prove that you still believe in them? And where do you draw that line between their autonomy and their dependence?
And this is how I will ruin your life:
As my friend, that line doesn't exist. Your business is my business once you've allowed me a glimpse. I will point out when you do stupid shit, and I will tell you why it was stupid, and make you feel like crap. Then I will try to help you fix it, and I won't be all nicey-nice once I've niced enough niceness. You have to admit the problem, and then we have to shoulder it together.
If you cannot claim responsibility for the people you love, what is the point of loving them at all?
...
Sunday, July 22, 2007
I am red as all get-out.
First of all, I decided to check my ‘space before picking up Harry Potter, because once that book is in my hands I'm fucking reading until it's done.
Second of all: Fantastic bachelorette party.
1. Rooftop cubs game. Rules. Excellent food and lots of booze. Love.
2. Everyone made friends with this kinda hot guy on the rooftop who was wearing white pants (haha, lame).
3. At the game we decided we were going to go to Rossi's (the bar) and hang out for awhile once the game was over. My phone runs out of batteries.
4. Left the cubs game and I got separated from everyone. So I hopped on the red line and went to Rossi's alone, ordered a PBR, lit a cigarette, asked Lynn Meyers (bartender) if I could charge my phone behind the bar, and opened up Harry Potter. Yes, it came with me to the bachelorette party.
5. Everyone at the bar wanted to talk to me about the goddamn book. "Is it good? How far are you? How many pages is it?" etc. etc. etc. I'm trying to read, here, people. But eventually I just put the book away and made friends. There's Gary, and old guy wearing a t-shirt for The Color Purple, who talked to me about what it was like being the only black kid in a Catholic school. And Jim, who was also at the Cubs game, the kind of guy who wears sunglasses with a string attached, and who booked it over to Rossi's to avoid his wife, who kept on calling him.
6. After about an hour of talking, I check my phone to see if it's charged. It is. I call people, and they're all like, "where are you?" and I'm just like, "duh, Rossi's."
7. I stay at the bar for like forty more minutes and then leave and walk over to the hotel. I am pleasantly hammered and it's six thirty. Before I can even get inside, Fraya snags me and is all like, "lets get beer and cigarettes." Ok. We go on a mile hike to find a Jewel or White Hen (the only ones I knew about were far, so we walked over there all stumbley-like downMichigan Avenue
8. Bought booze and began the trek back to the hotel. I'm sunburned as all fuck, and we watch some tap dancing street guys and give them like six bucks because they were awesome and I was drunk. Me and Fraya just stood there for like fifteen minutes clapping and cheering, and eventually a crowd formed around us and started giving the tap kids more money. Our work there was done. So then we leave.
9. We get back to the hotel with our sixpack and head over to room 1216 or something, and when we get there we hear serious cheering. Pound on the door, Schmee opens it a crack and is like, "Prepare yourself." So then we go inside and there's hardcore porn on the television, everyone is hammered, cheering, and watching the guy with the white pants from the rooftop take off his white pants (thank god, because white pants are LAME). I was thinking, "way to go Schmee, secret stripper. Excellent." But he was just a random dude that they convinced to leave his friends and come back to the hotel and strip for them. Amazing.
10. Everyone leaves to go to dinner except me and Fraya, and we hang out with The Amateur Stripper for awhile and finish off our beers. We make fun of his pants for about an hour.
11. Powell gets back to the hotel and we decide to head over to Rossi's again. Walk the couple of blocks over there and stop at 7-11 for cheap dinner sandwiches and go into Rossi's. People remember me from earlier, and they're all like, "How was Harry Potter? You find your bachelorette party?" and I'm like, "yeah, they convinced a guy to strip for us for free at the hotel and now they're eating tapas and drinking sangria, but we came here for 7-11 sandwiches and PBR." I am all class, I swear to god.
12. Fraya is hammered and goes back to the hotel and passes out for the night. This is at like ten.
13. Me and Powell make friends with a guy named Donny and he leaves his friends and follows us around for the rest of the night. He followed us to Mothers, where we met up with the rest of the party and kidnapped Muffy and sang some quick karaoke, and then to Estelle’s even though we never went inside, and then back to my apartment and slept on the LayZBoy.
14. Just before Mothers I take sixty bucks out of the ATM.
15. While we were hanging outside of Estelle’s they decided they wanted food (Powell, Muffy, and random guy Donny) so they went into Flash Taco to get burritos, and I started talking to a hip hop performer named Calloway who was selling his CD's on the sidewalk. I give him two dollars for one and realize that my sixty dollars is missing. I'm fucking hammered and don't really care. I probably put my card in the ATM and left the money there. I suck.
16. Calloway keeps me company for awhile and does some freestyling for me, which I think was impressive, but I really can't recall. Everyone comes out of flash taco with their burritos and I give Calloway a hug before he hands me a slip of paper with his Myspace page on it, and we head over to Estelle’s. The Compatriots want to eat outside so they sit down on a cement wall under a viaduct. Two guys are there with two dogs named Leopold and Belle. These dogs RULE. Leopold is a smallish American Bulldog (I mean, he was still huge, but he didn't look like beefsteak like some bulldogs) and he becomes my newest bestest friend while everyone is eating.
17. They decide they don't want to go to the bar. Fine. Lame. We have no cash so we walk home. Donny gives Powell a piggy back ride half the way.
18. Get home, turn on Venture Brothers, and hang out before it's pass out o'clock.
19. Wake up this morning and head over to IHOP, where I find my sixty dollars in my wallet.
20. And here I am. Sunburn. It's about time for some serious Harry Potter 7.
Second of all: Fantastic bachelorette party.
1. Rooftop cubs game. Rules. Excellent food and lots of booze. Love.
2. Everyone made friends with this kinda hot guy on the rooftop who was wearing white pants (haha, lame).
3. At the game we decided we were going to go to Rossi's (the bar) and hang out for awhile once the game was over. My phone runs out of batteries.
4. Left the cubs game and I got separated from everyone. So I hopped on the red line and went to Rossi's alone, ordered a PBR, lit a cigarette, asked Lynn Meyers (bartender) if I could charge my phone behind the bar, and opened up Harry Potter. Yes, it came with me to the bachelorette party.
5. Everyone at the bar wanted to talk to me about the goddamn book. "Is it good? How far are you? How many pages is it?" etc. etc. etc. I'm trying to read, here, people. But eventually I just put the book away and made friends. There's Gary, and old guy wearing a t-shirt for The Color Purple, who talked to me about what it was like being the only black kid in a Catholic school. And Jim, who was also at the Cubs game, the kind of guy who wears sunglasses with a string attached, and who booked it over to Rossi's to avoid his wife, who kept on calling him.
6. After about an hour of talking, I check my phone to see if it's charged. It is. I call people, and they're all like, "where are you?" and I'm just like, "duh, Rossi's."
7. I stay at the bar for like forty more minutes and then leave and walk over to the hotel. I am pleasantly hammered and it's six thirty. Before I can even get inside, Fraya snags me and is all like, "lets get beer and cigarettes." Ok. We go on a mile hike to find a Jewel or White Hen (the only ones I knew about were far, so we walked over there all stumbley-like down
8. Bought booze and began the trek back to the hotel. I'm sunburned as all fuck, and we watch some tap dancing street guys and give them like six bucks because they were awesome and I was drunk. Me and Fraya just stood there for like fifteen minutes clapping and cheering, and eventually a crowd formed around us and started giving the tap kids more money. Our work there was done. So then we leave.
9. We get back to the hotel with our sixpack and head over to room 1216 or something, and when we get there we hear serious cheering. Pound on the door, Schmee opens it a crack and is like, "Prepare yourself." So then we go inside and there's hardcore porn on the television, everyone is hammered, cheering, and watching the guy with the white pants from the rooftop take off his white pants (thank god, because white pants are LAME). I was thinking, "way to go Schmee, secret stripper. Excellent." But he was just a random dude that they convinced to leave his friends and come back to the hotel and strip for them. Amazing.
10. Everyone leaves to go to dinner except me and Fraya, and we hang out with The Amateur Stripper for awhile and finish off our beers. We make fun of his pants for about an hour.
11. Powell gets back to the hotel and we decide to head over to Rossi's again. Walk the couple of blocks over there and stop at 7-11 for cheap dinner sandwiches and go into Rossi's. People remember me from earlier, and they're all like, "How was Harry Potter? You find your bachelorette party?" and I'm like, "yeah, they convinced a guy to strip for us for free at the hotel and now they're eating tapas and drinking sangria, but we came here for 7-11 sandwiches and PBR." I am all class, I swear to god.
12. Fraya is hammered and goes back to the hotel and passes out for the night. This is at like ten.
13. Me and Powell make friends with a guy named Donny and he leaves his friends and follows us around for the rest of the night. He followed us to Mothers, where we met up with the rest of the party and kidnapped Muffy and sang some quick karaoke, and then to Estelle’s even though we never went inside, and then back to my apartment and slept on the LayZBoy.
14. Just before Mothers I take sixty bucks out of the ATM.
15. While we were hanging outside of Estelle’s they decided they wanted food (Powell, Muffy, and random guy Donny) so they went into Flash Taco to get burritos, and I started talking to a hip hop performer named Calloway who was selling his CD's on the sidewalk. I give him two dollars for one and realize that my sixty dollars is missing. I'm fucking hammered and don't really care. I probably put my card in the ATM and left the money there. I suck.
16. Calloway keeps me company for awhile and does some freestyling for me, which I think was impressive, but I really can't recall. Everyone comes out of flash taco with their burritos and I give Calloway a hug before he hands me a slip of paper with his Myspace page on it, and we head over to Estelle’s. The Compatriots want to eat outside so they sit down on a cement wall under a viaduct. Two guys are there with two dogs named Leopold and Belle. These dogs RULE. Leopold is a smallish American Bulldog (I mean, he was still huge, but he didn't look like beefsteak like some bulldogs) and he becomes my newest bestest friend while everyone is eating.
17. They decide they don't want to go to the bar. Fine. Lame. We have no cash so we walk home. Donny gives Powell a piggy back ride half the way.
18. Get home, turn on Venture Brothers, and hang out before it's pass out o'clock.
19. Wake up this morning and head over to IHOP, where I find my sixty dollars in my wallet.
20. And here I am. Sunburn. It's about time for some serious Harry Potter 7.
...
Monday, January 2, 2006
Nuthin' But a Brokeback Gangsta Pa-ar-tay.
Dude, New Years...
Muffy and I went to a few bars, and then we unknowingly attended a Homosexual Puerto Rican Gangsta Partay. I am not embelishing in any way.
One guy started talking to me. Conversation began with getting-to-know-you small talk about ancestry, Puerto Ricans, and why Chicago Peurto Ricans were unfocused because the Latin Kings don't have anymore economic guidelines like they did when he was a member. It then turned to his children.
He said, and I paraphrase, "So my son just turned 12, my other son turned 10, my last son turned 8, and my daughter just turned 6. And guess what? Their birthdays are December 16, 17, 18, and 19th."
He then took a dramatic pause.
"You know what that means?"
I shook my head, dumbfounded.
"I can only get bitches pregnant in March."
Pause.
"But that don't matter no more. Cuz now I lay off the bitches."
I checked my surroundings. There was certainly a disproportionate amount of guys. I mean, there were like, three girls, and one of them was, I'm sure, a very pretty, giant, slender, slip of a drag queen with fake boobs and obscenely long limbs. Like a flattened, cross-dressing Reed Richards.
Then I paid more attention. Oh. OH. Those guys are making out. I did not know that gay men wore oversized black jeans and gold teeth, but hey. Learn something new every year.
Good new year. Must eat more fruit, watch more movies, and lower my alcohol tolerance. because my bad habits are getting more and more expensive. You know you're in trouble when you think in terms of PBR units. For example:
How many units of PBR can I drink to make The Brother's Grimm more interesting?
How many units of PBR can I drink in one viewing of The Brother's Grimm?
How many units of PBR would it take to make Heath Ledger make out with Matt Damon a la Jake Gyllenhaal?
How many units of PBR would it take to make Heath Ledger make out with me?
How many units of PBR would it take to make Heath Ledger forget that he willingly made Ned Kelly?
And other things of this nature. Grimm-related questions: why is Heath sh-talking like Sean Connery and twitching like Johnny Depp? Exactly how large are Matt Damon's teeth? Why do Terry Gilliam movies frequently make me seasick, what with all the bouncing and the squeaming and the rolling? Who is that girl with the gargantuan lips who wishes she was Keira Knightley (who in turn wishes she was Winona Ryder/Natalie Portman)?
It's really a quite difficult movie to watch.
...
Muffy and I went to a few bars, and then we unknowingly attended a Homosexual Puerto Rican Gangsta Partay. I am not embelishing in any way.
One guy started talking to me. Conversation began with getting-to-know-you small talk about ancestry, Puerto Ricans, and why Chicago Peurto Ricans were unfocused because the Latin Kings don't have anymore economic guidelines like they did when he was a member. It then turned to his children.
He said, and I paraphrase, "So my son just turned 12, my other son turned 10, my last son turned 8, and my daughter just turned 6. And guess what? Their birthdays are December 16, 17, 18, and 19th."
He then took a dramatic pause.
"You know what that means?"
I shook my head, dumbfounded.
"I can only get bitches pregnant in March."
Pause.
"But that don't matter no more. Cuz now I lay off the bitches."
I checked my surroundings. There was certainly a disproportionate amount of guys. I mean, there were like, three girls, and one of them was, I'm sure, a very pretty, giant, slender, slip of a drag queen with fake boobs and obscenely long limbs. Like a flattened, cross-dressing Reed Richards.
Then I paid more attention. Oh. OH. Those guys are making out. I did not know that gay men wore oversized black jeans and gold teeth, but hey. Learn something new every year.
Good new year. Must eat more fruit, watch more movies, and lower my alcohol tolerance. because my bad habits are getting more and more expensive. You know you're in trouble when you think in terms of PBR units. For example:
How many units of PBR can I drink to make The Brother's Grimm more interesting?
How many units of PBR can I drink in one viewing of The Brother's Grimm?
How many units of PBR would it take to make Heath Ledger make out with Matt Damon a la Jake Gyllenhaal?
How many units of PBR would it take to make Heath Ledger make out with me?
How many units of PBR would it take to make Heath Ledger forget that he willingly made Ned Kelly?
And other things of this nature. Grimm-related questions: why is Heath sh-talking like Sean Connery and twitching like Johnny Depp? Exactly how large are Matt Damon's teeth? Why do Terry Gilliam movies frequently make me seasick, what with all the bouncing and the squeaming and the rolling? Who is that girl with the gargantuan lips who wishes she was Keira Knightley (who in turn wishes she was Winona Ryder/Natalie Portman)?
It's really a quite difficult movie to watch.
...
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