I am surprisingly not hung over, for a drunken asshole. Last night marked the first time I've ever gone to a bar and gotten fucking wasted without spending a dime. Apparently, I need to do the following:
1. Go to the douchebag bar where Phil works
2. Sit down
3. Laugh at guys' jokes when they aren't funny
4. Speak in cliches
And the next thing I know, I'm fucking hammered and I've done about a bazillion shots, and the last several of them were water, because I scam with the bar. Yes, you can buy me a shot. It's called "The Usual." What kind of a doucheface goes into a bar and gets a shot of The Usual? It was legitimately impressive to these people that I knew the bartenders well enough to do this, and it was annoying to me because that bar is loud and full of ageless frat guys with unfortunate goatees and hair gel.
All you need to do is pretend you don't know what they're talking about and that you find their opinion incredibly interesting, never offer any contradictory arguments. Basically, they say a sentence and then you repeat it back to them in different words. Fucking annoying. I didn't think it would work, but it does.
I said some of the most repulsive things last night.
"I don't know why, but I've always gotten along with guys better than girls."
"I'm not like most girls."
"Of course I don't want to see that movie, I'm a girl." (OMGWTF)
"I like, hate shopping."
The worst part about that? IT WORKS. You try to sound as bland as possible, say how different you are without being different, and everyone wants your number and to take you out for lobster on Wednesday. I actually had a good drunk conversation with one guy, who was surprisingly undouchey, and he's the only one who didn't ask for my number. I even had a guy talk about his wife and newborn child and then offer to take me out to dinner. He was the worst.
If any of them call, I'm still debating on if I should suffer through a free meal.
Fucking secret hand-baff and go home already, but first, buy me another shot of water.
...
Showing posts with label hangover shmangover. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hangover shmangover. Show all posts
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Drink a toast to never
I stopped feeling sorry for myself in public because I never got anyone to sympathize with me - oh, look at that independent, self-sufficient white girl from an upper/middle class family who has a job, a home, and a loving family, fucking boo waaah hoooooo, I sor you sad, have 10 cookies shaped liked stars cz u r 1 LOLZ!!!!
Right? Why don't I get that? It's all, "shut the fuck up and stop feeling sorry for yourself."
day 22 - a song that you listen to when you’re sad
That's legit, though. You know what's better than dealing with your issues? Not realizing you have them in the first place. Issues cripple your psyche. I didn't even know I had issues until someone told me I had issues, and then all of a sudden it was like, "I have issues? Where are they?" And then I found them, like a pile of bones at the foot of the stairs. When you throw 'em down one bone at a time they don't seem like much, but bones don't go away. They just accumulate.
Sorting through them is a solitary activity, and "After Hours" is my soundtrack. Lou, Lou, Lou...how did you know? I never realized I could identify with something so much and feel so isolated because of it.
...
* * * * * * * * * *
Right? Why don't I get that? It's all, "shut the fuck up and stop feeling sorry for yourself."
day 22 - a song that you listen to when you’re sad
That's legit, though. You know what's better than dealing with your issues? Not realizing you have them in the first place. Issues cripple your psyche. I didn't even know I had issues until someone told me I had issues, and then all of a sudden it was like, "I have issues? Where are they?" And then I found them, like a pile of bones at the foot of the stairs. When you throw 'em down one bone at a time they don't seem like much, but bones don't go away. They just accumulate.
Sorting through them is a solitary activity, and "After Hours" is my soundtrack. Lou, Lou, Lou...how did you know? I never realized I could identify with something so much and feel so isolated because of it.
...
Thursday, March 10, 2011
We've Had it With Your Discipline
1. Saturday night I got drunk. Like meathead drunk. I was sloppy and slurry, and at the end of the night I felt very awkward when Apples definitely pulled me in for a long hug, smelled my hair and whispered, "I love you so much" while his girlfriend stared at us.
2. But Apples is an awkward guy, and making people feel awkward is pretty much his job. I've never met anyone better at making people feel awkward than Apples. Regardless, in my drunken stupor it affected me deeply and irrationally, and I wondered what he meant by it other than the usual and freaked out.
3. So I met up with M.E.'s girlfriend at a shitty Puerto Rican thug bar called Lockdown and complained for awhile about how "skulls are so mainstream" and "ironic t-shirts are for pussies" and overreacting with worry regarding Apples, because I was fucking hammered. It lasted an hour, maybe, before I crawled home at 3:30 and started making mahfuckin' stroganoff, what what.
4. My buzzer rang twenty minutes later because Al the Landlord forgot his keys and saw that our lights were on, so he came over and we cracked some more beers and woke up CrazyLiz around four, who grabbed a beer and cheers-ed in because she's a fucking rock star. Al was pretty shit-faced himself and he didn't want to wake up his girlfriend (who was asleep in his place upstairs) and we talked about toilets.
5. After much laughter and camaraderie, AltL grunted, "Check this out," slammed his foot on the coffee table and dragged up his pantleg Dreyfuss-style, and all I could think was, "YES! battle-scars!" but instead he slid a handgun out of his ankle holster and laid it moderately delicately on the coffee table. So there was a gun in my apartment.
"And there's my gun," he laughed, like it was nothing.
"Fyou think we're playing Russian roulette," I slurred, "then you got a 'nother think. Sthera rule bout cops n guns? Can you even do this?" AltL is also a cop.
"Ha! I know, I know. S'not loaded." He pressed a button or something to prove it to me.
I stretched out my hand and grabbed at the air. "Gimme, please."
AltL held the handle out towards me and I grabbed the gun like a light in the dark, but my motor skills were all scrambled and boozy.
"Cock it," he said.
I turned the gun over in my hand, gripped barrel and looked at him. "Is this the barrel? Do handguns have barrels? Or is that just shotguns?" He answered, but I did not pay any attention since I was holding a fucking handgun. I'd never held a gun before. I shot my first BB gun in like December, shit I think I saw my first handgun like a year earlier. One time I shouldered an antique rifle.
My mom is the Queen of the anti-weapon-people. We weren't even allowed to have water guns. I don't think I even used a sharp knife until I was eighteen (this is probably because I am an idiot, and not really the work of my mom). Which is stupid, I think, because it does not lead to careful respect for firearms, it leads to wonder and complete irresponsibility. At least for me.
So drunken Rassles held a handgun and tried to cock it like a pro. But I forgot how hammered I was, and my hand slipped off the barrelgrip and I jammed my finger and pinched my thumb in some snappy invisible crevasse, dropped the gun, and then snatched it midair like a slippery little fish because I have wicked good catching skills but sloppy, fidgetty fingers.
CrazyLiz gasped and carefully wrestled the gun away from my cold, drunk hands.
"Snot loaded, Liz," I scoffed at her. "Give it. I'm fine."
"I don't give a shit," she explained. CrazyLiz, the guffawed voice of reason. "You aimed it at me, and now you lose your gun privileges."
"Horseshit. I did not aim atchoo."
"Yeah, you kinda did," AltL laughs like an oafish donkey putz. I like AltL.
"I like you, Al," I say, and my head lolls. "Sors. I don't not know...I know I don't...I don't, um. I know not what I fucking do, man." My head collapsed on the arm of the couch because my neck stopped working, and I looked at AltL with heavy eyes. "Sors."
"It's cool."
I closed my eyes slowly. "Liz. LIZ!"
"What? I'm right here."
"I am sors for pointing guns."
"It's okay, sweetie."
"You don't call me sweetie. You are being...pphhhh something."
There was a series of serious of lock-n-load clicks and snicker-snacks, and I glazed over at CrazyLiz, who mobilized the gun like a soldier and passed it back to AltL with discerned respect. "You should put that away before she hurts herself." I wanted to grab it out of her hands and just cuddle it like a teddy bear.
Al reaches for his gun, and nods, smiling. "That's prolly a good idea."
"Fuck you guys and yer guns."
AltL looks at CrazyLiz, I think. My eyes were closed. "So she's never held a gun before."
"No, she hasn't."
"But you definitely have."
"I learned how to shoot when I was in elementary school," CrazyLiz did her CrazyGiggle. "My dad is kind of a fanatic."
"My parents are accountants," I interjected. Loudly. "They do Lord of the Rings puzzles and taxes." I realized how lame that sounded, so I had to add something badass and huntery. "But I can gut n' skin a rabbit in a minute."
"What'd she say?" AltL asked Liz.
"To feed the tigers," I slurred. "We put 'em in pumpkins."
"What? Tigers?"
"She worked at a zoo," Liz translates, "like eight years ago. She thinks she's an expert."
"Oh."
"Tiger blood. Hehe. What? If tigers eat rabbits do they have rabbit blood? AltheLandlord! you should take the test. I bet you'd be a eagle. What? Stop talking. Shhhh." I opened my eyes and looked up. "Can I see the gun again?"
...
Oh, and BITCHES. New header. Give me compliments. Jeeze.
...
2. But Apples is an awkward guy, and making people feel awkward is pretty much his job. I've never met anyone better at making people feel awkward than Apples. Regardless, in my drunken stupor it affected me deeply and irrationally, and I wondered what he meant by it other than the usual and freaked out.
3. So I met up with M.E.'s girlfriend at a shitty Puerto Rican thug bar called Lockdown and complained for awhile about how "skulls are so mainstream" and "ironic t-shirts are for pussies" and overreacting with worry regarding Apples, because I was fucking hammered. It lasted an hour, maybe, before I crawled home at 3:30 and started making mahfuckin' stroganoff, what what.
4. My buzzer rang twenty minutes later because Al the Landlord forgot his keys and saw that our lights were on, so he came over and we cracked some more beers and woke up CrazyLiz around four, who grabbed a beer and cheers-ed in because she's a fucking rock star. Al was pretty shit-faced himself and he didn't want to wake up his girlfriend (who was asleep in his place upstairs) and we talked about toilets.
5. After much laughter and camaraderie, AltL grunted, "Check this out," slammed his foot on the coffee table and dragged up his pantleg Dreyfuss-style, and all I could think was, "YES! battle-scars!" but instead he slid a handgun out of his ankle holster and laid it moderately delicately on the coffee table. So there was a gun in my apartment.
"And there's my gun," he laughed, like it was nothing.
"Fyou think we're playing Russian roulette," I slurred, "then you got a 'nother think. Sthera rule bout cops n guns? Can you even do this?" AltL is also a cop.
"Ha! I know, I know. S'not loaded." He pressed a button or something to prove it to me.
I stretched out my hand and grabbed at the air. "Gimme, please."
AltL held the handle out towards me and I grabbed the gun like a light in the dark, but my motor skills were all scrambled and boozy.
"Cock it," he said.
I turned the gun over in my hand, gripped barrel and looked at him. "Is this the barrel? Do handguns have barrels? Or is that just shotguns?" He answered, but I did not pay any attention since I was holding a fucking handgun. I'd never held a gun before. I shot my first BB gun in like December, shit I think I saw my first handgun like a year earlier. One time I shouldered an antique rifle.
My mom is the Queen of the anti-weapon-people. We weren't even allowed to have water guns. I don't think I even used a sharp knife until I was eighteen (this is probably because I am an idiot, and not really the work of my mom). Which is stupid, I think, because it does not lead to careful respect for firearms, it leads to wonder and complete irresponsibility. At least for me.
So drunken Rassles held a handgun and tried to cock it like a pro. But I forgot how hammered I was, and my hand slipped off the barrelgrip and I jammed my finger and pinched my thumb in some snappy invisible crevasse, dropped the gun, and then snatched it midair like a slippery little fish because I have wicked good catching skills but sloppy, fidgetty fingers.
CrazyLiz gasped and carefully wrestled the gun away from my cold, drunk hands.
"Snot loaded, Liz," I scoffed at her. "Give it. I'm fine."
"I don't give a shit," she explained. CrazyLiz, the guffawed voice of reason. "You aimed it at me, and now you lose your gun privileges."
"Horseshit. I did not aim atchoo."
"Yeah, you kinda did," AltL laughs like an oafish donkey putz. I like AltL.
"I like you, Al," I say, and my head lolls. "Sors. I don't not know...I know I don't...I don't, um. I know not what I fucking do, man." My head collapsed on the arm of the couch because my neck stopped working, and I looked at AltL with heavy eyes. "Sors."
"It's cool."
I closed my eyes slowly. "Liz. LIZ!"
"What? I'm right here."
"I am sors for pointing guns."
"It's okay, sweetie."
"You don't call me sweetie. You are being...pphhhh something."
There was a series of serious of lock-n-load clicks and snicker-snacks, and I glazed over at CrazyLiz, who mobilized the gun like a soldier and passed it back to AltL with discerned respect. "You should put that away before she hurts herself." I wanted to grab it out of her hands and just cuddle it like a teddy bear.
Al reaches for his gun, and nods, smiling. "That's prolly a good idea."
"Fuck you guys and yer guns."
AltL looks at CrazyLiz, I think. My eyes were closed. "So she's never held a gun before."
"No, she hasn't."
"But you definitely have."
"I learned how to shoot when I was in elementary school," CrazyLiz did her CrazyGiggle. "My dad is kind of a fanatic."
"My parents are accountants," I interjected. Loudly. "They do Lord of the Rings puzzles and taxes." I realized how lame that sounded, so I had to add something badass and huntery. "But I can gut n' skin a rabbit in a minute."
"What'd she say?" AltL asked Liz.
"To feed the tigers," I slurred. "We put 'em in pumpkins."
"What? Tigers?"
"She worked at a zoo," Liz translates, "like eight years ago. She thinks she's an expert."
"Oh."
"Tiger blood. Hehe. What? If tigers eat rabbits do they have rabbit blood? AltheLandlord! you should take the test. I bet you'd be a eagle. What? Stop talking. Shhhh." I opened my eyes and looked up. "Can I see the gun again?"
...
Oh, and BITCHES. New header. Give me compliments. Jeeze.
...
Monday, March 7, 2011
Hypothetically, I am Awesome at Double Dutch
Someone called me quirky recently. I was confused and a bit insulted. I am not quirky. At least I don't think I'm quirky.
"Quirky" suggests a gleeful pride in your own peculiarities, whereas I don't think I'm very peculiar at all. Everyone else is peculiar for thinking I'm peculiar. I am just me. Peculiar is highly underused, as far as words are concerned.
But this guy was just so lame. I have to talk to strangers at networking events; it's a non-profit hazard. But do they all have to suck at the art of conversation? I don't give a shit about where you went to college. I don't think it's interesting that one time you and your buddies took a road trip to Miami and it was so wild, you just like got drunk and just acted stupid, your friends are so crazy! You're just like the guys in Entourage!
Sometimes having a conversation with strangers is like...it's like hypothetically, I'm fucking awesome at double dutch. But my turners are a T-Rex and a kangaroo and their quaint little arms just ain't fit for rope skipping. So I get all tangled up because they just don't have the skill to play, and after encouraging them to try and coaxing with candied meats and repeated failures at both, I snag the rope in frustration and jump alone while they watch. And I'm hammering the shit out of tricks and spins, I'm a butterfly on cocaine and I try to pass them the rope and they just look at me, and the kangaroo giggles to the T-rex, "someone has a lot of time on their hands. You're quirky." Fuck you. I just gave an Olympic oratory performance, you jealous fuck.
"You can't just ask people if they can hear punctuation," CrazyLiz says. "It's weird."
"How is that weird? Have you ever had a conversation with someone who only speaks in run-on sentences? It's infuriating, and I never get a turn."
"But you have to do small talk first, that's how it works. Those are the rules."
"Those rules are fucking stupid. Stupid."
"People need to be eased into your thoughts sometimes," she explains lightly.
"That's ridiculous. If you can't play, I don't want to talk to you anyway."
CrazyLiz laughs. "You are such a bitch."
"I have rhetorical fucking standards, is what it is. Quirky. They called me quirky. Who the fuck are you?"
"Well Rass, you've got your quirks."
I remain silent in protest and rub my forehead, because I've been drinking for about nine hours.
"Okay, for example: you bought a pair of boots. Instead of saying, 'hey, do you like my new shoes?' you throw yourself into a ten-minute expose about 'gratuitous boots' and 'buckle-fashion' and 'equestrian-decked pedestrians' or whatever, and you can say it to me because we've been friends for fifteen years, but strangers are just going to think you're crazy."
"They can't handle my shit. Charlie Sheen could handle my shit. And then this other girl starts talking to us and she's all adorable with big deer eyes and boring and she laughs at everything, and the guys are like spilling out of their seats to snag her attention. I'm sorry that I'll only laugh at your jokes when they're fucking funny."
"I thought that was a different conversation...didn't you already tell me this?"
"It happens all the fucking time."
"Okay, Rass, I'm going to bed, I can't have the same conversation again. I'm tired."
"It's just fucking bullshit. 'Oh, you drove a car? And you had a beer? In Miami? That's sooooo funny.' Spoons and gagging. Fucking trollop."
"It's six AM, can't we talk about this tomorrow?"
"And it's like, is that what they want? They would rather talk to someone who just fucking fawns over their insignificance and offers no actual thoughts or sentences to a conversation and I hand them fucking gemstones and ingots and it's like, 'oh, you're quirky. Oh, you're feisty.' Fuck you. I am brilliant."
...
"Quirky" suggests a gleeful pride in your own peculiarities, whereas I don't think I'm very peculiar at all. Everyone else is peculiar for thinking I'm peculiar. I am just me. Peculiar is highly underused, as far as words are concerned.
But this guy was just so lame. I have to talk to strangers at networking events; it's a non-profit hazard. But do they all have to suck at the art of conversation? I don't give a shit about where you went to college. I don't think it's interesting that one time you and your buddies took a road trip to Miami and it was so wild, you just like got drunk and just acted stupid, your friends are so crazy! You're just like the guys in Entourage!
Sometimes having a conversation with strangers is like...it's like hypothetically, I'm fucking awesome at double dutch. But my turners are a T-Rex and a kangaroo and their quaint little arms just ain't fit for rope skipping. So I get all tangled up because they just don't have the skill to play, and after encouraging them to try and coaxing with candied meats and repeated failures at both, I snag the rope in frustration and jump alone while they watch. And I'm hammering the shit out of tricks and spins, I'm a butterfly on cocaine and I try to pass them the rope and they just look at me, and the kangaroo giggles to the T-rex, "someone has a lot of time on their hands. You're quirky." Fuck you. I just gave an Olympic oratory performance, you jealous fuck.
"You can't just ask people if they can hear punctuation," CrazyLiz says. "It's weird."
"How is that weird? Have you ever had a conversation with someone who only speaks in run-on sentences? It's infuriating, and I never get a turn."
"But you have to do small talk first, that's how it works. Those are the rules."
"Those rules are fucking stupid. Stupid."
"People need to be eased into your thoughts sometimes," she explains lightly.
"That's ridiculous. If you can't play, I don't want to talk to you anyway."
CrazyLiz laughs. "You are such a bitch."
"I have rhetorical fucking standards, is what it is. Quirky. They called me quirky. Who the fuck are you?"
"Well Rass, you've got your quirks."
I remain silent in protest and rub my forehead, because I've been drinking for about nine hours.
"Okay, for example: you bought a pair of boots. Instead of saying, 'hey, do you like my new shoes?' you throw yourself into a ten-minute expose about 'gratuitous boots' and 'buckle-fashion' and 'equestrian-decked pedestrians' or whatever, and you can say it to me because we've been friends for fifteen years, but strangers are just going to think you're crazy."
"They can't handle my shit. Charlie Sheen could handle my shit. And then this other girl starts talking to us and she's all adorable with big deer eyes and boring and she laughs at everything, and the guys are like spilling out of their seats to snag her attention. I'm sorry that I'll only laugh at your jokes when they're fucking funny."
"I thought that was a different conversation...didn't you already tell me this?"
"It happens all the fucking time."
"Okay, Rass, I'm going to bed, I can't have the same conversation again. I'm tired."
"It's just fucking bullshit. 'Oh, you drove a car? And you had a beer? In Miami? That's sooooo funny.' Spoons and gagging. Fucking trollop."
"It's six AM, can't we talk about this tomorrow?"
"And it's like, is that what they want? They would rather talk to someone who just fucking fawns over their insignificance and offers no actual thoughts or sentences to a conversation and I hand them fucking gemstones and ingots and it's like, 'oh, you're quirky. Oh, you're feisty.' Fuck you. I am brilliant."
...
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Next Time I Will Be Wearing Pants: Many Profiles
Last night me and CrazyLiz had an impromptu party on our porch, which began with a case of beer and heckling an endless stream of angry drivers who failed to parallel-ically squeeze their way into a iddy biddy rock star parking spot across the street, and ended with me passing out on my laptop.
The person who finally did get her car in that spot is the masterful Brenda, an Irish aviation engineer who lives in the basement. She's got this beautiful harlequin Great Dane named Seamus, and she's going to let me take him for walks. We applauded her parking job voraciously and tricked her into hanging out with us, and she got fuckin' durnk (which is a new word I just made up, just now, for 'drunk.' This is because I am creative, and not because I'm bad at typing) and made cat-calls at every single bike that cruised down the street.
After awhile Al roared up to the building on his motorcycle, and we shanghaied him for porch-drinking. Al is Brenda's younger brother. Lives on the third floor. That apartment up there goes through tenants like prune juice through a human centipede (I am a visual writer, if anything). Anyway, Al is the landlord (the Brenda/Al family owns the building), or at least he has been ever since Doug moved down south. I miss Doug. Kind of. Al is a better landlord, but Doug let me scam on his internet and he was in a band called DOUGOUT! and used to practice his keyboards really loud. And then he'd stuff fliers for shows under our door, and MoLinder would get all pissy because she slept directly beneath his "music" room. Now we have Al (Brenda calls him Alfie, it's friggin adorable), the Irish Chicago cop with a dog that looks like my tattoo
Oh, and Al is fucking hot.
According to Christy and Chad, who live across the hall from him and who were also hanging out on the porch with us last night, he has a plethora of lady-friends who frequently come a-callin'. And, psssst: they do it on his porch. OMG I KNOW HILARE.
It really didn't take much pleading to get these people to pile onto the porch, just some beer and an ashtray and a smile. I'm betting Al uses a similar system to lure his lady-friends, but they make the sex and I make bad jokes. Neither of us, however, end up wearing pants.
Next time we all have an impromptu party, though, I will be wearing real pants, and not boxers covered in polar bears. I promised.
We tried to get Upstairs Steve to hang out, but last time I made Upstairs Steve join me on the porch it was seven in the morning and I was still drinking from the night before and I gave him personality quizzes for like an hour. He thinks I'm odd. His power animal is the penguin.
So I'm hungover right now. Lame.
...
The person who finally did get her car in that spot is the masterful Brenda, an Irish aviation engineer who lives in the basement. She's got this beautiful harlequin Great Dane named Seamus, and she's going to let me take him for walks. We applauded her parking job voraciously and tricked her into hanging out with us, and she got fuckin' durnk (which is a new word I just made up, just now, for 'drunk.' This is because I am creative, and not because I'm bad at typing) and made cat-calls at every single bike that cruised down the street.
After awhile Al roared up to the building on his motorcycle, and we shanghaied him for porch-drinking. Al is Brenda's younger brother. Lives on the third floor. That apartment up there goes through tenants like prune juice through a human centipede (I am a visual writer, if anything). Anyway, Al is the landlord (the Brenda/Al family owns the building), or at least he has been ever since Doug moved down south. I miss Doug. Kind of. Al is a better landlord, but Doug let me scam on his internet and he was in a band called DOUGOUT! and used to practice his keyboards really loud. And then he'd stuff fliers for shows under our door, and MoLinder would get all pissy because she slept directly beneath his "music" room. Now we have Al (Brenda calls him Alfie, it's friggin adorable), the Irish Chicago cop with a dog that looks like my tattoo
Oh, and Al is fucking hot.
According to Christy and Chad, who live across the hall from him and who were also hanging out on the porch with us last night, he has a plethora of lady-friends who frequently come a-callin'. And, psssst: they do it on his porch. OMG I KNOW HILARE.
It really didn't take much pleading to get these people to pile onto the porch, just some beer and an ashtray and a smile. I'm betting Al uses a similar system to lure his lady-friends, but they make the sex and I make bad jokes. Neither of us, however, end up wearing pants.
Next time we all have an impromptu party, though, I will be wearing real pants, and not boxers covered in polar bears. I promised.
We tried to get Upstairs Steve to hang out, but last time I made Upstairs Steve join me on the porch it was seven in the morning and I was still drinking from the night before and I gave him personality quizzes for like an hour. He thinks I'm odd. His power animal is the penguin.
So I'm hungover right now. Lame.
...
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Weddings are no longer the worst times of my life: first photoblog ever.
"Okay," sighs CrazyLiz, closing her eyes and cranking her seat back. "High Low, Wisconsin Edition. Begin."
"What do you mean? Like how many Highs and how many Lows?"
"Yeah. Five each."
"Okay. Highs? Bar with the tree at the bachelor party."
"Tree bar. For sure."
"Best Jukebox ever, super bonding music time with Phil's brother."
"I think my binding time with Phil's brother was a High."
"Well you got to make out with him, so I'd say your high supersedes mine."
CrazyLiz giggles like she's about to divulge in dirty, opulent secrets. "Until Liger Girl ruined it."
"Stupid Liger Girl."
"Did you know there's a Liger Farm in Romeoville?"
"You speak fictitious untruths. You are a fucking Liger Liar, silly sally."
"And you steal my make out partners. That was a Low."
"Concur." We pause to ridicule the audacity of Liger Girl on countless levels, because we're bitches that need to fill the three hour car trip with something.
"Okay," I start up again. "Taylor at the bachelor party. That fucking guy is like a roman candle.""Who only drinks tequila."
"Neat," I remind her, pointing.
"Yes, only drinks tequila neat."
"And then we had to carry him down the hall to the hotel room after smashing him into the car like a drunken accordion."
"That reeks of tequila."
"Fucking Taylor." I take a sip of water, grinning.
"I got to kiss him too," she sighs, satisfied. "And cuddle. I would say cuddle time with both of them was a High."
"That's because you're a whore. I would say Taylor peeing on his pillow was a high."
"We saw his shween!"
"And then Phil had to follow the stream with the bucket and we made him sleep on it."
"You guys are such bastards."
"We are hiLARious."
"Whatever," CrazyLiz reaches forward. "Do we have any more beef jerky?"
"Fuck. Low: running out of road trip jerky."
"Lame." She puts on her sunglasses and leans back again. "Low? Not finding Otis Redding's memorial in Madison."
"High? Finding every single other memorial in Madison."
"Furious searching."
"Followed by extravagant failure. But then? Wrong turns equal super fun time."
"And Rassles' favorite museum of all time."
"Yes. New favorite museums. Could you imagine what would have happened if we didn't see that sign?"
"Yes. We would have napped, and my hangover would have mysteriously vanished."
"Small price to pay for the Circus World Museum."
"I love that you find a new favorite museum every year."
"I also love that about me."
"But you still had to wear that awful sweatshirt."
"Do not say things about my sweatshirt that you will fucking regret."
She cracks up. "Oh my GOD, that sweatshirt is such a fucking cock block."
"God forbid all of the smokin' hot dudes at the fucking Circus Museum want to stay away from us. THERE WAS NO ONE THERE."
"COCK. BLOCK."
"Shut up."
"You shut up."
"No you shut up."
"NO YOU SHUT UP."
"GAAAAHHHHHH. You know what? Fine. Okay. Lows: CrazyLiz talking mad shit about my fucking amazing-ass sweatshirt."
"Lows: Rassles wearing retarded-ass sweatshirts."
"I hate you so hard right now. Everyone loves that sweatshirt but you."
"That's because they all know to stay away from the Dorky Crazy Lady wearing Salvation Army rejects."
"I bought that sweatshirt straight from the fucking source. IT IS MY HOME JERSEY."
"THEN WEAR IT AT HOME."
"Oh, we are so in a fight right now."
"Whatever."
"Okay, okay. Highs. Circus Museum: climbing into the human cannon."
"Climbing into the off-limits human cannon."
"Having no one around to tell us to stop touching stuff."
"Climbing over all of the displays."
"And into creepy old traincars."
"Wearing circus costumes around the park that we found on a display rack."
"That cape was super itchy."
"You're a wuss."
"Plus it made me look huge."
"Mine was like a big gold moo-moo."
"Yes, but it was flowy and airy," I point out to her.
"And it billowed in the wind like a poem."
"Poems are known for being billowy."
"Okay. Next. Writing Phil's wedding vows for him after the rehearsal dinner."
I start to laugh, and quote our genius. "Your boobs look awesome from up here. This is because I am tall. Hey, if we have kids, are they going to be vegan like you? Because then I don't know if they can drink breastmilk."
"Low: Phil not using the vows we wrote for him."
"Seriously. Bullshit. High: beer canoe."
"High: dumping out the beer canoe and going canoeing in the lake."
"Okay, high: towel dancing on the bojangled dance floor."
"Oh, I loved towel dancing. Low: freezing cold."
"Low: everyone passing out and drinking and watching Big Fish by myself."
"High: you did not cry or fight with anyone."
"BEST WEDDING EVER!"
I think we had more than five of each.
...
Monday, May 10, 2010
Here's the Thing: When in Rome
MoLinder is leaving. Moving back to San Diego in three weeks. I am deeply distressed. I am mildly deeply distressed.
So now whenever it's just the two of us hanging out we just get fucking wasted and yell at each other about politics or something way less significant and way more tangled in bullshit and false, undeserved superiority. But we agree on everything so shouting is fucking futile, yet inevitable, and nothing ever makes sense.
Since both of us are tenacious, zealous, and wise as hell, mostly our conversations go like this:
"I just feel like such a...like, an asshole. Because I'm all like, yeah, I fucking read that book and it sucked. But I don't want to hurt people's feelings, but then I almost DO want to hurt them so they'll fucking learn how to discern good literature from crap. And the writing is awful, and the story is lame-"
"You know what? That's bullshit." MoLinder is mad.
"Why can't people ever give us stories we've never heard before?" I am drunk.
"Who says shit has to be new to be fucking quality?" We are both drunk.
"Do you know how hard it is to create a story that hasn't been told?"
"That's why I like Stephen King."
"It's fucking impossible."
"Because knows, he understands, that reading is for enjoyment."
"Yeah but, 'member when you were fifteen when all stories were new, and then you took all those crap lit classes that taught you archetypes-"
"Read because you love to read, not because someone found a fucking deeper meaning. Because you know what? Deeper meaning? Metaphor? Is CRAP."
"-but BOOM. Life ruined. You will never be original because now you know all about fucking rhetoric and tropes and shit."
"And I'm a Lit Major."
"Tropes ruin my life."
"You know why I like to read? Because it's fucking fun. That's why. And that's why I like Stephen King, and I don't give a shit if that makes me like mainstream or whatever."
"But I want to identify with it, I want it to mean something."
"So you won't read anything that isn't like, important. You're a fucking elitist."
"No, that's not it. Well, yeah, I'm an elitist."
"HA! See! Stephen King would spit on you. He sees through your lies."
"I hate elitists. Because they're all, 'murmurmur, fuckin' some French shit. Ohmygod, David Eggers and some author no one's heard of.' You want me to name-drop some shit? Because I will name-drop fucking elusive cultural references all over your ass. Not when I am drunk."
"ELITIST."
"But I don't mean like, important to society, I'm talking important to me and my values which include but are not limited to ONE! movies. And TWO! beer."
"Ah, yes. Okay."
"So take something like fucking Twilight. I know, I know-"
"See, it's just fun, man, you know? Stop hating on it."
"I hated it so much I threw the book. But like, you hate East of Eden and that's one of my favorites."
"I fucking hate Steinbeck. No. No, I just fucking hate East of Eden. Fucking Cathy? Is a bitch. And the whole Cain and Abel thing-but you know what? You cannot compare the two, they are not the same type of book. Twilight isn't like pretentious classic literature where people are all, 'whoa, themes and deep shit.' It's just easy and fun."
"What, like your hatred of East of Eden has more validness or whatever than my hatred of Twilight? I read that book because I watched the movie."
"Well--"
"I didn't give a shit about Steinbeck, it was all, 'Oh, James Dean, you're so dreamy.' James Dean was my fucking R-Pattserbin or fucking whatever, except like, dead for forty years."
"Whatever, Cedric Diggory is hot."
"Plus, I promise you that more people have read Twilight which automatically makes it more culturally significant."
"That's just sad."
"It's true." I pause to drink my white russian. It is 4am. We both have to work in four hours. "So I am totally right."
"About what?"
"I have no fucking idea."
"Ahhh. When in Rome."
...
So now whenever it's just the two of us hanging out we just get fucking wasted and yell at each other about politics or something way less significant and way more tangled in bullshit and false, undeserved superiority. But we agree on everything so shouting is fucking futile, yet inevitable, and nothing ever makes sense.
Since both of us are tenacious, zealous, and wise as hell, mostly our conversations go like this:
"I just feel like such a...like, an asshole. Because I'm all like, yeah, I fucking read that book and it sucked. But I don't want to hurt people's feelings, but then I almost DO want to hurt them so they'll fucking learn how to discern good literature from crap. And the writing is awful, and the story is lame-"
"You know what? That's bullshit." MoLinder is mad.
"Why can't people ever give us stories we've never heard before?" I am drunk.
"Who says shit has to be new to be fucking quality?" We are both drunk.
"Do you know how hard it is to create a story that hasn't been told?"
"That's why I like Stephen King."
"It's fucking impossible."
"Because knows, he understands, that reading is for enjoyment."
"Yeah but, 'member when you were fifteen when all stories were new, and then you took all those crap lit classes that taught you archetypes-"
"Read because you love to read, not because someone found a fucking deeper meaning. Because you know what? Deeper meaning? Metaphor? Is CRAP."
"-but BOOM. Life ruined. You will never be original because now you know all about fucking rhetoric and tropes and shit."
"And I'm a Lit Major."
"Tropes ruin my life."
"You know why I like to read? Because it's fucking fun. That's why. And that's why I like Stephen King, and I don't give a shit if that makes me like mainstream or whatever."
"But I want to identify with it, I want it to mean something."
"So you won't read anything that isn't like, important. You're a fucking elitist."
"No, that's not it. Well, yeah, I'm an elitist."
"HA! See! Stephen King would spit on you. He sees through your lies."
"I hate elitists. Because they're all, 'murmurmur, fuckin' some French shit. Ohmygod, David Eggers and some author no one's heard of.' You want me to name-drop some shit? Because I will name-drop fucking elusive cultural references all over your ass. Not when I am drunk."
"ELITIST."
"But I don't mean like, important to society, I'm talking important to me and my values which include but are not limited to ONE! movies. And TWO! beer."
"Ah, yes. Okay."
"So take something like fucking Twilight. I know, I know-"
"See, it's just fun, man, you know? Stop hating on it."
"I hated it so much I threw the book. But like, you hate East of Eden and that's one of my favorites."
"I fucking hate Steinbeck. No. No, I just fucking hate East of Eden. Fucking Cathy? Is a bitch. And the whole Cain and Abel thing-but you know what? You cannot compare the two, they are not the same type of book. Twilight isn't like pretentious classic literature where people are all, 'whoa, themes and deep shit.' It's just easy and fun."
"What, like your hatred of East of Eden has more validness or whatever than my hatred of Twilight? I read that book because I watched the movie."
"Well--"
"I didn't give a shit about Steinbeck, it was all, 'Oh, James Dean, you're so dreamy.' James Dean was my fucking R-Pattserbin or fucking whatever, except like, dead for forty years."
"Whatever, Cedric Diggory is hot."
"Plus, I promise you that more people have read Twilight which automatically makes it more culturally significant."
"That's just sad."
"It's true." I pause to drink my white russian. It is 4am. We both have to work in four hours. "So I am totally right."
"About what?"
"I have no fucking idea."
"Ahhh. When in Rome."
...
Monday, May 3, 2010
Standing Was Exhausting
Man, I am not allowed to get drunk anymore, because then I send emails like this:
I haVE DEVELOPED THE BAD HABIT OF EMAILIN O=YOU DURING PERIODS OF INOTOXICATION. I ALSO CANNOT PROPERLY NEGATE MY CAPS LOCK. APPARENTLY.
To poor, unsuspecting souls.
More importantly, Furry Vengeance is the same thing as Avatar edited with clips from America's Funniest home videos. Also - no wearable robots with secret swords.
Yesterday me and Schmee got drunk at the Cubs game from the lofty confines of a luxury suite. They had shrimp. And I hit random speed-dials on the suite's phone asking, "Is this where we get more beer? No? Thank you." And Schmee was all logical and shit and, "Why don't you call catering?" And I explained that...I don't know what I explained, but I gave her a damn good reason for my decision to call every department but catering.
I also stole the uneaten blocks of cheese from the cheese plate and carried them around in my purse for eight hours while we struggled from bar to bar. I was all spinny. Standing was exhausting.
Neither of us know why we kept on drinking, meeting up with new people at each bar and just telling the same story over and over again (and I'm doing it now) (and then I called to get more beer! and then I put cheese in my purse! and Schmee sat next to the owner of the Brewers! OMG so drunk!).
Whatever. I WRITE BLOG.
...
I haVE DEVELOPED THE BAD HABIT OF EMAILIN O=YOU DURING PERIODS OF INOTOXICATION. I ALSO CANNOT PROPERLY NEGATE MY CAPS LOCK. APPARENTLY.
To poor, unsuspecting souls.
More importantly, Furry Vengeance is the same thing as Avatar edited with clips from America's Funniest home videos. Also - no wearable robots with secret swords.
Yesterday me and Schmee got drunk at the Cubs game from the lofty confines of a luxury suite. They had shrimp. And I hit random speed-dials on the suite's phone asking, "Is this where we get more beer? No? Thank you." And Schmee was all logical and shit and, "Why don't you call catering?" And I explained that...I don't know what I explained, but I gave her a damn good reason for my decision to call every department but catering.
I also stole the uneaten blocks of cheese from the cheese plate and carried them around in my purse for eight hours while we struggled from bar to bar. I was all spinny. Standing was exhausting.
Neither of us know why we kept on drinking, meeting up with new people at each bar and just telling the same story over and over again (and I'm doing it now) (and then I called to get more beer! and then I put cheese in my purse! and Schmee sat next to the owner of the Brewers! OMG so drunk!).
Whatever. I WRITE BLOG.
...
Monday, April 19, 2010
Sometimes It Skips a Generation
Last Sunday Afternoon. Not yesterday. The one before that. Whatever.
"Shit. Hold on guys, I need to take this," I'm shaking as I leave the patio table in front of the bar and answer my phone, partly because it's cold outside, partly out of fear, and partly because I'm a little hungover. Or a lot hungover. Whatever.
This is a big fucking deal, because I don't do that. I also don't use call waiting, and I won't talk on the phone while I'm hanging out with someone else. It's fucking rude. Seriously, if I'm constantly texting someone when I'm around you it means I don't want to be around you.
Exceptions to these rules include but are not limited to (1) giving directions to a third member of our party who has yet to arrive, (2) receiving directions for a destination to which we have yet to travel, and (3) my mother, because she only calls when something is wrong.
I do not idly chat with my mother. She is smart, exact, realistic, calm, retentive, genuinely polite and all business, which is why I answer her phone calls. Also, I'd been waiting for her to call me all morning.
"Hey, Ma."
"Hi, hon. What's going on?"
"Well..." I don't want to tell her. I've called her twice today, and I don't want to tell her. "So...okay. So you know how I...shit."
"Honey."
"Sorry. Okay." Breathe. Breathe. "The bike got stolen. Atticus. Is gone."
"What? Oh no, honey, I'm so sorry."
"And I'm sorry, it's all my fault, I take full responsibility and I promise, I promise, I promise I will do my damnedest to find it."
"Well, bikes get stolen. How did they get through the lock?"
"See, it wasn't locked."
"Oh? Why not?"
"It was in the back hallway, and it's only accessible through one of the apartments. Unless someone left the back gate and the back door unbolted, which is unlikely. I think."
"Still, honey, you know you should always lock-"
"Yes. I know. Always lock your bike, always lock your car, always lock your door. I know this. I know." My mom doesn't understand things like this. Making little mistakes. There are rules, you see, and you follow them.
"Well honey, obviously you didn't know."
Gaaaaahhhhhhh. "Yes. You're right. I'm sorry. It was locked all winter, and I moved it last weekend and forgot to lock it up and some son of a bitch took the damn thing in that four day period of time and I'm sorry for screwing up. Again." I'd left my lock draped over the handlebar with every intention of putting it back on just after doing...something. Whoever stole the bike had coolly placed the u-lock on the window shelf. Tauntingly.
"It's not your fault," she assures me, with complete sincerity. "It's that other person's fault for breaking the law."
"Yes. I know." She says that now. But in four years I'm gonna do something stupid and she's going to be all, well, you need to be more careful. Remember when the bike got stolen?
"Did you file a police report?"
"No, not yet."
"Well honey--"
"That's why I called you. I need the serial number. I can't find my copy of it." Total lie. I never wrote it down because I never found it on the bike. Because I am a dumbass.
"Oh, I'm sure I have it filed." I am positive she has the original paperwork from 1970-whatever and everything. "I'm actually on the road right now, so I can't get it for you until a little bit later."
"Thanks. And you know, I think I found it on Craiglist. I'm sure I did. And I emailed them and they never got back to me, and then they totally just pulled the bike from the ad completely. Like it was never even there. They had to know it was me."
"How would they know that?" I wish she was being patronizing, because then I could blame her for giving me low-self-esteem or something while venting to my imaginary therapist. No, she is honestly inquisitive. Much more infuriating and harder to prove.
"Because I posted a note with my email address all around the complex and I used that same email address to contact those sonsabitches and I know that whoever stole my bike had to be friends with someone in the building. They had to be. Otherwise, I mean...yeah. They had to be allowed into that hallway by a person who lives there. So I'm thinking that the sonsabitches were warned that I was on to them."
"When did it become okay for you to swear?"
"I'm sorry." Shit.
She sighs. "I guess that's entirely possible."
"But okay, listen to this - so I set up a fake email address and I emailed them this morning and they got back to me within a minute. Seriously. I said I was Phil, and me and him are going over there tomorrow night and we're totally gonna steal it back. I'm talking stealthy, cloak-and-dagger shit. I mean business. Pretend I didn't swear. Sor."
"Please don't steal it. You should call the police."
"I know, you're right. I'm sorry, I just got excited and said 'steal.' I promise we will call the police."
"Don't say things you don't mean."
Fuck. "I apologize. I already talked to the cops and asked them if they would go with me. They said I had to verify it was my bike first, and that I should call 911 if I found it."
"Really--"
"And then I asked if finding my stolen bike on the property of another was worthy of an emergency phone call, and the policewoman said, 'Hell yeah, girl.' So I gots legal permission."
"Well okay, then."
"I'm sorry for interrupting you, before. I just want you to know that I'm taking care of it. I got this down. Seriously. Except for the locking-the-bike part."
"I'm glad. And now you know why we always remind you to do these things. One day, like this time, you might forget. I know you would never be intentionally careless. And you know, in the end - and you don't want to hear this - but you will learn from this."
I fucking wish that was some passive-aggressive shit, but I know it's not. It reads like some passive-aggressive shit. Believe what you will, but know this: you don't know my mom. You never have to ask her if she's mad. Ever. She tells you immediately. Granted, she hasn't been mad at me for years, not since I lived at home after college. Then it was constantly, you know, "I'm mad at you because you got drunk and skipped your cousin's wedding shower" (I WAS LOOKING FOR A MISSING SNOWMAN) or "I'm mad at you because of your secret tattoo" or "I'm mad at you because the dog ate your cigarettes and now there is tobacco in the carpet and when did you start smoking?" or "I'm mad at you because you quit grad school and didn't tell me and if you refuse to take any steps towards a substantive career you need to be out of this house by October."
"Thanks, Ma." Get mad at me. Why the fuck aren't you mad at me?
"Don't worry, honey, I'm not mad at you." Well you fucking should be. It's so much easier to give myself a hard time if I have a fucking reason to do so.
"Good. I was worried." Shit shit shit. Guilt.
"You can't blame yourself for this. I'll get you that serial number later, but I have to go now, okay?"
"Okay."
"Stop it. Do not blame yourself."
"I'm not."
"I don't want you feeling guilty about this. I know how you are. And don't do anything...silly."
"What, like stake out potential burglar addresses that I found on Craigslist? I'm doing that tomorrow night."
"Just don't. You know what? Nevermind."
"Thanks."
"I gotta go. Later, okay?"
"Later, skater."
"Bye, honey."
I hang up the phone and head back over to the table, shivering. It's cold outside. My posse has moved to an adjacent patio table in the sun.
"The Mom?" Muffy asks as I sit down again.
"You know it."
"Did she have it?" MoLinder jumps in.
"Filed away."
"I told you. Accountants, man, they save everything," Sean laughs.
"You know, I love my mom because she's the most responsible woman ever in the world, but I fucking hate my mom because she's the most responsible woman ever. In the fucking world."
...
"Shit. Hold on guys, I need to take this," I'm shaking as I leave the patio table in front of the bar and answer my phone, partly because it's cold outside, partly out of fear, and partly because I'm a little hungover. Or a lot hungover. Whatever.
This is a big fucking deal, because I don't do that. I also don't use call waiting, and I won't talk on the phone while I'm hanging out with someone else. It's fucking rude. Seriously, if I'm constantly texting someone when I'm around you it means I don't want to be around you.
Exceptions to these rules include but are not limited to (1) giving directions to a third member of our party who has yet to arrive, (2) receiving directions for a destination to which we have yet to travel, and (3) my mother, because she only calls when something is wrong.
I do not idly chat with my mother. She is smart, exact, realistic, calm, retentive, genuinely polite and all business, which is why I answer her phone calls. Also, I'd been waiting for her to call me all morning.
"Hey, Ma."
"Hi, hon. What's going on?"
"Well..." I don't want to tell her. I've called her twice today, and I don't want to tell her. "So...okay. So you know how I...shit."
"Honey."
"Sorry. Okay." Breathe. Breathe. "The bike got stolen. Atticus. Is gone."
"What? Oh no, honey, I'm so sorry."
"And I'm sorry, it's all my fault, I take full responsibility and I promise, I promise, I promise I will do my damnedest to find it."
"Well, bikes get stolen. How did they get through the lock?"
"See, it wasn't locked."
"Oh? Why not?"
"It was in the back hallway, and it's only accessible through one of the apartments. Unless someone left the back gate and the back door unbolted, which is unlikely. I think."
"Still, honey, you know you should always lock-"
"Yes. I know. Always lock your bike, always lock your car, always lock your door. I know this. I know." My mom doesn't understand things like this. Making little mistakes. There are rules, you see, and you follow them.
"Well honey, obviously you didn't know."
Gaaaaahhhhhhh. "Yes. You're right. I'm sorry. It was locked all winter, and I moved it last weekend and forgot to lock it up and some son of a bitch took the damn thing in that four day period of time and I'm sorry for screwing up. Again." I'd left my lock draped over the handlebar with every intention of putting it back on just after doing...something. Whoever stole the bike had coolly placed the u-lock on the window shelf. Tauntingly.
"It's not your fault," she assures me, with complete sincerity. "It's that other person's fault for breaking the law."
"Yes. I know." She says that now. But in four years I'm gonna do something stupid and she's going to be all, well, you need to be more careful. Remember when the bike got stolen?
"Did you file a police report?"
"No, not yet."
"Well honey--"
"That's why I called you. I need the serial number. I can't find my copy of it." Total lie. I never wrote it down because I never found it on the bike. Because I am a dumbass.
"Oh, I'm sure I have it filed." I am positive she has the original paperwork from 1970-whatever and everything. "I'm actually on the road right now, so I can't get it for you until a little bit later."
"Thanks. And you know, I think I found it on Craiglist. I'm sure I did. And I emailed them and they never got back to me, and then they totally just pulled the bike from the ad completely. Like it was never even there. They had to know it was me."
"How would they know that?" I wish she was being patronizing, because then I could blame her for giving me low-self-esteem or something while venting to my imaginary therapist. No, she is honestly inquisitive. Much more infuriating and harder to prove.
"Because I posted a note with my email address all around the complex and I used that same email address to contact those sonsabitches and I know that whoever stole my bike had to be friends with someone in the building. They had to be. Otherwise, I mean...yeah. They had to be allowed into that hallway by a person who lives there. So I'm thinking that the sonsabitches were warned that I was on to them."
"When did it become okay for you to swear?"
"I'm sorry." Shit.
She sighs. "I guess that's entirely possible."
"But okay, listen to this - so I set up a fake email address and I emailed them this morning and they got back to me within a minute. Seriously. I said I was Phil, and me and him are going over there tomorrow night and we're totally gonna steal it back. I'm talking stealthy, cloak-and-dagger shit. I mean business. Pretend I didn't swear. Sor."
"Please don't steal it. You should call the police."
"I know, you're right. I'm sorry, I just got excited and said 'steal.' I promise we will call the police."
"Don't say things you don't mean."
Fuck. "I apologize. I already talked to the cops and asked them if they would go with me. They said I had to verify it was my bike first, and that I should call 911 if I found it."
"Really--"
"And then I asked if finding my stolen bike on the property of another was worthy of an emergency phone call, and the policewoman said, 'Hell yeah, girl.' So I gots legal permission."
"Well okay, then."
"I'm sorry for interrupting you, before. I just want you to know that I'm taking care of it. I got this down. Seriously. Except for the locking-the-bike part."
"I'm glad. And now you know why we always remind you to do these things. One day, like this time, you might forget. I know you would never be intentionally careless. And you know, in the end - and you don't want to hear this - but you will learn from this."
I fucking wish that was some passive-aggressive shit, but I know it's not. It reads like some passive-aggressive shit. Believe what you will, but know this: you don't know my mom. You never have to ask her if she's mad. Ever. She tells you immediately. Granted, she hasn't been mad at me for years, not since I lived at home after college. Then it was constantly, you know, "I'm mad at you because you got drunk and skipped your cousin's wedding shower" (I WAS LOOKING FOR A MISSING SNOWMAN) or "I'm mad at you because of your secret tattoo" or "I'm mad at you because the dog ate your cigarettes and now there is tobacco in the carpet and when did you start smoking?" or "I'm mad at you because you quit grad school and didn't tell me and if you refuse to take any steps towards a substantive career you need to be out of this house by October."
"Thanks, Ma." Get mad at me. Why the fuck aren't you mad at me?
"Don't worry, honey, I'm not mad at you." Well you fucking should be. It's so much easier to give myself a hard time if I have a fucking reason to do so.
"Good. I was worried." Shit shit shit. Guilt.
"You can't blame yourself for this. I'll get you that serial number later, but I have to go now, okay?"
"Okay."
"Stop it. Do not blame yourself."
"I'm not."
"I don't want you feeling guilty about this. I know how you are. And don't do anything...silly."
"What, like stake out potential burglar addresses that I found on Craigslist? I'm doing that tomorrow night."
"Just don't. You know what? Nevermind."
"Thanks."
"I gotta go. Later, okay?"
"Later, skater."
"Bye, honey."
I hang up the phone and head back over to the table, shivering. It's cold outside. My posse has moved to an adjacent patio table in the sun.
"The Mom?" Muffy asks as I sit down again.
"You know it."
"Did she have it?" MoLinder jumps in.
"Filed away."
"I told you. Accountants, man, they save everything," Sean laughs.
"You know, I love my mom because she's the most responsible woman ever in the world, but I fucking hate my mom because she's the most responsible woman ever. In the fucking world."
...
Monday, March 15, 2010
Happy St. Patrick's Day Weekend, Me.
My head is on something hard. Why am I sleeping on something hard? I peel one eye open.
Daylight is for cocksuckers.
Laptop. Why am I sleeping on my laptop? And...cat. MoLinder's cat. "Panther, mrrrrmfff."
He chirps and sniffs my hair.
"Fuckin...mmmfff."
I try to lift up my head, but my neck fails and my head smacks the laptop again. Shit. Passed out with the lights on, too. Gotta stop...ooomff. Doing that.
"Okay, Panther, ready? We are getting up on the count of three."
He chirps.
"Fuck you, cat."
Chirp.
"Seriously, I can do this. This is happening."
Chirp.
"Why do you have no faith in me, Pan?"
Chirp.
"I have had enough of your shit. It is time to get out of bed. Hangover be damned -- shit. Shit. Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit. Shit. Wow. SHIT. Hey. Hey, Panther?"
Chirp.
"Why am I sleeping in my bed?"
My body slams upright and sweep my hands up to slip the hair from my face, leaving a trail of cash along the bed. I look in my hand.
"Why am I furiously clutching a stack of cash?"
I shoot out of bed, knocking Panther onto the floor and damn near stepping into a mug of soup.
"WHY IS THERE SOUP ON MY FLOOR?" I never eat my bedroom.
Is someone here? MoLinder's out of town. Oh god. Oh, god, fuck you, St. Patrick, and all of your days. I couldn't have seriously, I mean, there is no way...no. Thank god. Jesus fucking Christ, how the fuck did I get home last night?
"Wow. Fucking...wow." I pick up the mug of soup and carry it into the kitchen. Purse? Well, the contents are spread around the floor. Check. Keys? On the hook. Check. Shoes? Heels are smashed down. So I didn't wear my shoes home...which explains the soaking wet socks lying in front of the television. I'm still holding some cash in my hand...about thirty-five dollars.
"So I took a cab home. And I pulled out cash. Or I stole cash from someone. Either is possible, right? Wow. Wow. Wow wow wow shit-owwwww!" I stub my toe on the filing cabinet and suck in a breath. That hurt. I look down at my foot. Apparently I skinned my heel last night. There's blood.
I don't time travel when I'm drinking. I'll have little brown outs, sure, where I don't remember one conversation or something, but I don't just lose fucking time. I walk into the kitchen. There is soup fucking everywhere.
Burp. Tastes like soup. At least I ate some of it.
What was I doing on my laptop? Oh, shit, did I send out drunk emails? I struggle back into my room and open my laptop. It's on youtube. This video. I am awesome. Self-high-five. I check my email. No drunken email messages, thank god.
"Holy fucking golly, what the hell? Wow. How did I--PIECE OF SHIT PHONE."
I knew exactly where to go for that - because I always sleep on top of my phone when I'm drunk. I don't do it on purpose. It just happens that way. I wake up, and Piece of Shit Phone is under my ass. Because it rings, you know? And my ass is a natural muffler. Kind of.
Piece of Shit Phone is exactly where I thought it would be, under the covers. There's also a small smear of blood from my heel near the foot of the bed. Lame. I check the messages. Around 12:30 I told Gyna I got home. Okay. I talked to Phil at 10:30 - definitely don't remember that. I texted Schmee the same text message twice - that I was too drunk to drive - once just before nine, and once at ten. I don't remember the second one.
Think, goddammit.
Call Gyna.
Network busy. Piece of Shit Phone. Go out on the porch. Daylight. Hot damn, it is wonderful outside. Okay, it's ringing. Gyna, answer your phone. You fucking whore, answer your phone. THIS IS IMPORTANT. I leave her a panicked message the length of her voicemail.
Okay, it's 9:30 on a Sunday morning, and she was with you last night. Let's be realistic here. She's asleep. PHIL. Call Phil.
"Lo."
"Phil!"
He starts laughing. "What's up dude? How you feeling? Are you hungover as hell?"
"Dude, did I call you last night?"
"No, man, I called you. You don't remember? That's awesome."
"Okay. Okay, cool. How long did we talk?"
"I don't know, ten minutes or something. I wanted you to come to Estelle's but you said you were hammered and playing cards. And I think you had a cigar."
"Good fucking golly, that explains throat hangover."
"Maybe you smoked pot."
"Definitely no. Besides, that only happens when I'm fucking wasted and trying to prove how hardcore I am. Once a year."
"Awwww, Ross, babe, you know you're never going to be hardcore."
"That doesn't negate the delusion."
"So what do you remember? You said you were at some dude's house."
I rub my forehead. People are walking toward the church down the street. I should've put on a bra. "Clutter. I was at Clutter's. And there was booze. There was beer, and then there were white russians, and then...then I was drinking vodka and strawberry crush."
"Very Irish."
"I was smart enough to lay off the whiskey to avoid fighting. I think."
"That all sounds fucking disgusting."
"And then we talked about playing asshole, and then...I woke up with my face on my laptop holding a wad of money."
"Dude, did you send out drunken shit to people?"
"I don't think so, but apparently I was watching Orson Welles champagne commercials."
"Ross, you are by far the nerdiest cool chick I have ever met in my entire life."
"I know, right?"
...
Daylight is for cocksuckers.
Laptop. Why am I sleeping on my laptop? And...cat. MoLinder's cat. "Panther, mrrrrmfff."
He chirps and sniffs my hair.
"Fuckin...mmmfff."
I try to lift up my head, but my neck fails and my head smacks the laptop again. Shit. Passed out with the lights on, too. Gotta stop...ooomff. Doing that.
"Okay, Panther, ready? We are getting up on the count of three."
He chirps.
"Fuck you, cat."
Chirp.
"Seriously, I can do this. This is happening."
Chirp.
"Why do you have no faith in me, Pan?"
Chirp.
"I have had enough of your shit. It is time to get out of bed. Hangover be damned -- shit. Shit. Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit. Shit. Wow. SHIT. Hey. Hey, Panther?"
Chirp.
"Why am I sleeping in my bed?"
My body slams upright and sweep my hands up to slip the hair from my face, leaving a trail of cash along the bed. I look in my hand.
"Why am I furiously clutching a stack of cash?"
I shoot out of bed, knocking Panther onto the floor and damn near stepping into a mug of soup.
"WHY IS THERE SOUP ON MY FLOOR?" I never eat my bedroom.
Is someone here? MoLinder's out of town. Oh god. Oh, god, fuck you, St. Patrick, and all of your days. I couldn't have seriously, I mean, there is no way...no. Thank god. Jesus fucking Christ, how the fuck did I get home last night?
"Wow. Fucking...wow." I pick up the mug of soup and carry it into the kitchen. Purse? Well, the contents are spread around the floor. Check. Keys? On the hook. Check. Shoes? Heels are smashed down. So I didn't wear my shoes home...which explains the soaking wet socks lying in front of the television. I'm still holding some cash in my hand...about thirty-five dollars.
"So I took a cab home. And I pulled out cash. Or I stole cash from someone. Either is possible, right? Wow. Wow. Wow wow wow shit-owwwww!" I stub my toe on the filing cabinet and suck in a breath. That hurt. I look down at my foot. Apparently I skinned my heel last night. There's blood.
I don't time travel when I'm drinking. I'll have little brown outs, sure, where I don't remember one conversation or something, but I don't just lose fucking time. I walk into the kitchen. There is soup fucking everywhere.
Burp. Tastes like soup. At least I ate some of it.
What was I doing on my laptop? Oh, shit, did I send out drunk emails? I struggle back into my room and open my laptop. It's on youtube. This video. I am awesome. Self-high-five. I check my email. No drunken email messages, thank god.
"Holy fucking golly, what the hell? Wow. How did I--PIECE OF SHIT PHONE."
I knew exactly where to go for that - because I always sleep on top of my phone when I'm drunk. I don't do it on purpose. It just happens that way. I wake up, and Piece of Shit Phone is under my ass. Because it rings, you know? And my ass is a natural muffler. Kind of.
Piece of Shit Phone is exactly where I thought it would be, under the covers. There's also a small smear of blood from my heel near the foot of the bed. Lame. I check the messages. Around 12:30 I told Gyna I got home. Okay. I talked to Phil at 10:30 - definitely don't remember that. I texted Schmee the same text message twice - that I was too drunk to drive - once just before nine, and once at ten. I don't remember the second one.
Think, goddammit.
Call Gyna.
Network busy. Piece of Shit Phone. Go out on the porch. Daylight. Hot damn, it is wonderful outside. Okay, it's ringing. Gyna, answer your phone. You fucking whore, answer your phone. THIS IS IMPORTANT. I leave her a panicked message the length of her voicemail.
Okay, it's 9:30 on a Sunday morning, and she was with you last night. Let's be realistic here. She's asleep. PHIL. Call Phil.
"Lo."
"Phil!"
He starts laughing. "What's up dude? How you feeling? Are you hungover as hell?"
"Dude, did I call you last night?"
"No, man, I called you. You don't remember? That's awesome."
"Okay. Okay, cool. How long did we talk?"
"I don't know, ten minutes or something. I wanted you to come to Estelle's but you said you were hammered and playing cards. And I think you had a cigar."
"Good fucking golly, that explains throat hangover."
"Maybe you smoked pot."
"Definitely no. Besides, that only happens when I'm fucking wasted and trying to prove how hardcore I am. Once a year."
"Awwww, Ross, babe, you know you're never going to be hardcore."
"That doesn't negate the delusion."
"So what do you remember? You said you were at some dude's house."
I rub my forehead. People are walking toward the church down the street. I should've put on a bra. "Clutter. I was at Clutter's. And there was booze. There was beer, and then there were white russians, and then...then I was drinking vodka and strawberry crush."
"Very Irish."
"I was smart enough to lay off the whiskey to avoid fighting. I think."
"That all sounds fucking disgusting."
"And then we talked about playing asshole, and then...I woke up with my face on my laptop holding a wad of money."
"Dude, did you send out drunken shit to people?"
"I don't think so, but apparently I was watching Orson Welles champagne commercials."
"Ross, you are by far the nerdiest cool chick I have ever met in my entire life."
"I know, right?"
...
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Chekhov's Gun
Last night I got good and drunk and argued with people about religion, which is always fucking stupid, and I did that thing where I rip apart Dan Brown books because they're obvious and contrived, and how did people not know what The Da Vinci Code was about from the first page? Sion. Hello. It was like a big fat hairy Duh. What else could it have been about?
I ruined the Sixth Sense for people, too. Sitting in the movie theater (or if you prefer Ye Olde Language Spellinge, "theatre"), leaning over to my friends: "Oh, I get it. He's totally dead."
The problem with a twist or a surprise ending is that you're not supposed to know it's going to happen, but when every marketing tool available claims, "You will never expect this twist!" you completely expect the twist. Way to take the piss out of it, assholes.
Then there are those endings that you know are going to happen, but it's still a shocker, and you're all, "Are you fucking kidding me?" because in the back of your mind, yes, this was inevitable, but you didn't think that it would actually end that way.
That's kind of how I feel about my hangover right now.
...
I ruined the Sixth Sense for people, too. Sitting in the movie theater (or if you prefer Ye Olde Language Spellinge, "theatre"), leaning over to my friends: "Oh, I get it. He's totally dead."
The problem with a twist or a surprise ending is that you're not supposed to know it's going to happen, but when every marketing tool available claims, "You will never expect this twist!" you completely expect the twist. Way to take the piss out of it, assholes.
Then there are those endings that you know are going to happen, but it's still a shocker, and you're all, "Are you fucking kidding me?" because in the back of your mind, yes, this was inevitable, but you didn't think that it would actually end that way.
That's kind of how I feel about my hangover right now.
...
Thursday, May 28, 2009
This Summer Is Going To Be Epic, And That Means Expensive
1. It has taken me a week to recover from last weekend.
2. Last weekend, as many epics do, opened in medias res, with drunken bike riding endurance trials and great feats of emotional strength, verbal dueling with hipsters and defending my kingdom against imminent douchebaggery. The details, thankfully, are fuzzy, and I've always been partial to fuzzy things.
3. That does not mean I am a fucking furry.
4. I found out that Gay Black Wayne is a furry. You may not know who Gay Black Wayne is, but he knows you, or he knows someone you know. I could be all, "Hey, Blues, this is my friend Gay Black Wayne," and then you'll be all, "Nice to meet you, I live in Spain." And he'll be all, "Oh my god! I love Spain! This one time [I went to this one place in this one city and I met this guy named Steve]!" And you'll be all, "Steve the Skeeve?" and GBW'll be all, "Yeah, I gave him a blow job in an ally" and you'll be all "OMG seriously you know Steve the Skeeve? Totally thought that guy had a girlfriend" and GBW'll be all "Oh, girl! No one has a girlfriend around me." Funnier: GBW is massive.
5. I didn't see GBW last weekend, he just came up in a conversation where I discovered that he dabbled in dressing like an animal. But look at this: Steve the Skeeve. We already have epithets, and that dude is fictional, dammit. Told you this shit was epic.
6. Hung out with old college friends (The Circus. On the day we graduated, amidst a drunken blitz, Mr. Jim Leyden gave a toast: "I just wanna say, you guys are a bunch of clowns. So here's a cheers to being in The Circus.") on Sunday and Memorial Day, who I miss terribly and I didn't even realize it. Here is a conglomerate of quotes, which is more for my recollection than yours, and I wish I had the will to coherently swirl them into a story with punch and pizzaz, but alas, I don't fucking feel like it.
Sometimes, I have to yell at Muffy for getting herself into tricky situations:
Sometimes, Fraya can be a hot mess (hence the name, Hot Mess Fraya):
Sometimes, Schmee and Cihak can be funny:
And sometimes, quotes of the night can stand alone:
...
2. Last weekend, as many epics do, opened in medias res, with drunken bike riding endurance trials and great feats of emotional strength, verbal dueling with hipsters and defending my kingdom against imminent douchebaggery. The details, thankfully, are fuzzy, and I've always been partial to fuzzy things.
3. That does not mean I am a fucking furry.
4. I found out that Gay Black Wayne is a furry. You may not know who Gay Black Wayne is, but he knows you, or he knows someone you know. I could be all, "Hey, Blues, this is my friend Gay Black Wayne," and then you'll be all, "Nice to meet you, I live in Spain." And he'll be all, "Oh my god! I love Spain! This one time [I went to this one place in this one city and I met this guy named Steve]!" And you'll be all, "Steve the Skeeve?" and GBW'll be all, "Yeah, I gave him a blow job in an ally" and you'll be all "OMG seriously you know Steve the Skeeve? Totally thought that guy had a girlfriend" and GBW'll be all "Oh, girl! No one has a girlfriend around me." Funnier: GBW is massive.
5. I didn't see GBW last weekend, he just came up in a conversation where I discovered that he dabbled in dressing like an animal. But look at this: Steve the Skeeve. We already have epithets, and that dude is fictional, dammit. Told you this shit was epic.
6. Hung out with old college friends (The Circus. On the day we graduated, amidst a drunken blitz, Mr. Jim Leyden gave a toast: "I just wanna say, you guys are a bunch of clowns. So here's a cheers to being in The Circus.") on Sunday and Memorial Day, who I miss terribly and I didn't even realize it. Here is a conglomerate of quotes, which is more for my recollection than yours, and I wish I had the will to coherently swirl them into a story with punch and pizzaz, but alas, I don't fucking feel like it.
Sometimes, I have to yell at Muffy for getting herself into tricky situations:
"Muffy, I'm not gonna negotiate you off the roof."
"Fuck you. Getuphere."
"They wone lemme."
"Fucking bowshit. Bowshit bowshit bowshit. Fuckin...on the roof. Fuckin' lookahme. By mysef. On the roof. Fuckin' work it. Work. It. I fucking work it. I got a fuckin' green hat, and I fucking work it. Green. Hat. Westside."
"Yer babbling all incoherentish. Please come down and hang out or I will push you off like that guy in fucking China."
Sometimes, Fraya can be a hot mess (hence the name, Hot Mess Fraya):
"Dude, I need like three more bloody marys or I'm gonna have the shakes all damn day."
"Oh, Ross--I've been meaning to talk to you about something."
"Hmmmm?"
"We should go to AA."
Sometimes, Schmee and Cihak can be funny:
"Whoa, dude, I didn't recognize without your collar popped."
"He only lifts up one corner now, because he's just part douchebag now, isn't that right, Baby Face?"
And sometimes, quotes of the night can stand alone:
"I shat in that bucket for like a week."
- Clay
"And then my dad yelled at me for using too much teeth."
- Lance
...
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Fun With Foreigners, But Not the Band
So yesterday at a late-night barbeque I had the pleasure of meeting a fifty year old drunk ass Polish man, who has nearly half of his teeth and a thick, heavily slurred accent. He was the only one of his kind, struggling through a slop of skinny drunken hipsters.
After we watched the landlady throw a giant wicker basket on the firepit (which I'm pretty sure was an old wheelbarrow full of flaming two-by-fours) and nearly set the tree on fire, Gyna and I started making friends with people we didn't know. Being me, I got to talk to a close-talking drunk twice my age. He loves me. Duh.
"I beeld house. For you. Yes?"
"You want to build me a house?" I turn to Gyna, who is next to me, talking to a guy that's our age, with a full set of teeth. "He wants to build me a house."
"Oh god," she shakes her head.
"I know."
The Polish Man interjects. "Yes, and we have sree chilren. All boys."
"Oh, really? Okay then."
"You are spayshel. Veree. You are streeling, yes? Streeling?"
"Stealing?"
"Yes! No, no. You are um, carree? You carree beeg theengs?"
"Strong?"
"YES! YES! I know. Eez no bullshit. Some say bullshit I say no bullshit. But my Eeenglish, is...meeeeeeh, you so-so, you okay, you Polish, you bullshit. No bullshit. I am Polish. I am talking to spayshel girl, who my son like."
"I am definitely special. Exactly."
"Yes. And you have dance?" He tries to dance with me.
"No, dude, I'm not gonna dance with you."
"You have dance, and we dance. And we do this? You have pen?"
"No, sorry, I don't have a pen."
"You have pen, and you write...name...and you write tellofone."
"Dude, I'm not giving you my phone number."
"You frend? We frend. Son frend."
"Your son?"
"Okay."
"How old is your son? Do I know him?"
"I have son and he is, um, he like...shport. He um," the guy starts thrusting his his hips and pumping his fists, and my eyes bulge, "he do zis, on snow...in mountain...in um...snow. He has hat, he has...shport, he has...no fear. NO fear!"
"He skiis?"
"He do that, yes. Skeeze? Skeeze. Yes. His is very big skeeze." He reaches over and squeezes my arm. "You make mossle."
"Um, okay." I flex.
"You are skeeze?" He starts the thrusting thing again.
"No, I don't ski. I would like to ski, but I have this problem, you see, it's called, severe uncoordination and subsequent falling all the time. Aaaaaand I like saying things that you won't understand."
Uncomfortable silence. I sip my beer. Gyna is chatting away. I look around for a way out, but then the Polish Man starts yammering again.
"You are baseball?"
"I am baseball? Yes. Yes, I am baseball. Are you baseball?"
"Me? I um...no. I am beerd, and I clean, and I no have beerd. I have...knife. I creem on face."
Oh, jesus. "You cream on face?"
"You see--" he grabs my hand and makes me feel his cheek "--is clean. Veree. I do that."
"Oh, you shave. Are you a barber?"
"Ohhh, no, yes. I like dark beer. You? You like?"
"Do I like dark beer? Sure. It's fine."
"My Eenglish is not good. Is focking bullshit."
"Exactly."
"Ackzaktillee? What is zis ackzaktillee? You say?"
"It means, um, you are right. You are correct."
"Oh, I am veree ackzaktillee. All ze time! Veree ackzaktillee!"
What fun the foreigners are.
...
After we watched the landlady throw a giant wicker basket on the firepit (which I'm pretty sure was an old wheelbarrow full of flaming two-by-fours) and nearly set the tree on fire, Gyna and I started making friends with people we didn't know. Being me, I got to talk to a close-talking drunk twice my age. He loves me. Duh.
"I beeld house. For you. Yes?"
"You want to build me a house?" I turn to Gyna, who is next to me, talking to a guy that's our age, with a full set of teeth. "He wants to build me a house."
"Oh god," she shakes her head.
"I know."
The Polish Man interjects. "Yes, and we have sree chilren. All boys."
"Oh, really? Okay then."
"You are spayshel. Veree. You are streeling, yes? Streeling?"
"Stealing?"
"Yes! No, no. You are um, carree? You carree beeg theengs?"
"Strong?"
"YES! YES! I know. Eez no bullshit. Some say bullshit I say no bullshit. But my Eeenglish, is...meeeeeeh, you so-so, you okay, you Polish, you bullshit. No bullshit. I am Polish. I am talking to spayshel girl, who my son like."
"I am definitely special. Exactly."
"Yes. And you have dance?" He tries to dance with me.
"No, dude, I'm not gonna dance with you."
"You have dance, and we dance. And we do this? You have pen?"
"No, sorry, I don't have a pen."
"You have pen, and you write...name...and you write tellofone."
"Dude, I'm not giving you my phone number."
"You frend? We frend. Son frend."
"Your son?"
"Okay."
"How old is your son? Do I know him?"
"I have son and he is, um, he like...shport. He um," the guy starts thrusting his his hips and pumping his fists, and my eyes bulge, "he do zis, on snow...in mountain...in um...snow. He has hat, he has...shport, he has...no fear. NO fear!"
"He skiis?"
"He do that, yes. Skeeze? Skeeze. Yes. His is very big skeeze." He reaches over and squeezes my arm. "You make mossle."
"Um, okay." I flex.
"You are skeeze?" He starts the thrusting thing again.
"No, I don't ski. I would like to ski, but I have this problem, you see, it's called, severe uncoordination and subsequent falling all the time. Aaaaaand I like saying things that you won't understand."
Uncomfortable silence. I sip my beer. Gyna is chatting away. I look around for a way out, but then the Polish Man starts yammering again.
"You are baseball?"
"I am baseball? Yes. Yes, I am baseball. Are you baseball?"
"Me? I um...no. I am beerd, and I clean, and I no have beerd. I have...knife. I creem on face."
Oh, jesus. "You cream on face?"
"You see--" he grabs my hand and makes me feel his cheek "--is clean. Veree. I do that."
"Oh, you shave. Are you a barber?"
"Ohhh, no, yes. I like dark beer. You? You like?"
"Do I like dark beer? Sure. It's fine."
"My Eenglish is not good. Is focking bullshit."
"Exactly."
"Ackzaktillee? What is zis ackzaktillee? You say?"
"It means, um, you are right. You are correct."
"Oh, I am veree ackzaktillee. All ze time! Veree ackzaktillee!"
What fun the foreigners are.
...
Friday, May 15, 2009
All My Good Ideas Come From Other People
I know, I know. Ginny found it first. But I go there when I'm bored, and I love it.
Seriously. Look at this fucking hipster.
...
Seriously. Look at this fucking hipster.
...
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Thirty is the New Awesome
This may or may not come off as a coherent entry, because I may or may not be super-dee-duper hungover. So hungover, to be true, that after going out to Grandma Sally's for some serious corned beef hash and blueberry pancakes, I drove by an Arby's and decided that the most important thing in my life was a big beef and cheddar. I sat in the drive-thru for two minutes before I remembered not only that I am broke, but I'd polished off a massive late-afternoon breakfast not fifteen minutes earlier.
Last night was Slinger's 30th birthday. Ideally, right now I would burst into catchy Cat Ballou ballad, one where Nat King Cole and I would saddle up into cowboy gear and pluck our banjos while harmonizing about things of drunken legend. Because I love that fucking movie, and I've had it on my brain ever since I watched My Name Is Bruce last Sunday. Twice. So basically, instead of writing about getting drunk and being all around awesome, I think I'm going to watch Cat Ballou.
But I have to say, that Ang and Dainon are my favorite people for letting us destroy their house. It's all cut up into this kitschy swinging ridiculous 1970's bachelor pad, which is odd for a married couple, full of red and leopard print and a fully stocked bar in their basement with more full bottles of booze than half the bars I've hit. But my love didn't escalate just because Dainon played barkeep while he dished out shots and beer.
It was because at six in the morning, Ang busted out a big vat of cooking oil and fried the shit out of everything in her freezer.
I struggled into the kitchen, because when you've been drinking for ten hours, life is a struggle. Ang was standing over the stove, dropping little frozen bits of heaven into the pot of oil. "Wait...are you...are you actually frying things? Not just baking them in the oven and hoping they're not soggy and bullshit?"
"Ross, what the fuck kind of black woman would I be if I didn't force feed ya'll some fried chicken?"
"I do not want to answer that because it confuses me," I had to lean on the counter for support, "but you are the most amazing human on the planet if you're seriously deep frying those jalapeno poppers right now."
"Girl, you know I take care of you."
"You blow my mind. I doan even know how you can fuckin use a stove."
"Here, honey, have some pizza puffs," she pointed toward a basket full of fried goodness. "And there's ranch dressing over there."
I did exactly as I was told, and started struggling away.
"Ross, don't forget your beer."
I looked at her with as much puppy as I could muster. "I wish I was a lesbian and you were my wifey."
...
Last night was Slinger's 30th birthday. Ideally, right now I would burst into catchy Cat Ballou ballad, one where Nat King Cole and I would saddle up into cowboy gear and pluck our banjos while harmonizing about things of drunken legend. Because I love that fucking movie, and I've had it on my brain ever since I watched My Name Is Bruce last Sunday. Twice. So basically, instead of writing about getting drunk and being all around awesome, I think I'm going to watch Cat Ballou.
But I have to say, that Ang and Dainon are my favorite people for letting us destroy their house. It's all cut up into this kitschy swinging ridiculous 1970's bachelor pad, which is odd for a married couple, full of red and leopard print and a fully stocked bar in their basement with more full bottles of booze than half the bars I've hit. But my love didn't escalate just because Dainon played barkeep while he dished out shots and beer.
It was because at six in the morning, Ang busted out a big vat of cooking oil and fried the shit out of everything in her freezer.
I struggled into the kitchen, because when you've been drinking for ten hours, life is a struggle. Ang was standing over the stove, dropping little frozen bits of heaven into the pot of oil. "Wait...are you...are you actually frying things? Not just baking them in the oven and hoping they're not soggy and bullshit?"
"Ross, what the fuck kind of black woman would I be if I didn't force feed ya'll some fried chicken?"
"I do not want to answer that because it confuses me," I had to lean on the counter for support, "but you are the most amazing human on the planet if you're seriously deep frying those jalapeno poppers right now."
"Girl, you know I take care of you."
"You blow my mind. I doan even know how you can fuckin use a stove."
"Here, honey, have some pizza puffs," she pointed toward a basket full of fried goodness. "And there's ranch dressing over there."
I did exactly as I was told, and started struggling away.
"Ross, don't forget your beer."
I looked at her with as much puppy as I could muster. "I wish I was a lesbian and you were my wifey."
...
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.
...
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Ubiquitous debauchery somnambulism
I have a new favorite game. I've been playing it nonstop since yesterday afternoon.
It's not really much of a game, since there's no way to win or keep score or really any way to gain anything from it other than perfect pronunciation, which is exactly my type of game. Completely non-competitive, and it gives me a reason to feel smarter than other people with my critically impervious lexiconization (I said it) of ubiquitous and debauchery and somnambulism, three words which are perfectly synonymous with my drunken tardation.
Basically, follow these instructions:
Phase 1
Go here.
Phase 2
Type a word into the searchmobile. One of the aforementioned three will suffice.
Phase 3
Scroll down to the "American Heritage Dictionary" definition.
Phase 4
Click "Audio help."
Phase 5
?
Phase 6
Profit
Yeah, I just did that.
Anyway, so I made it to work today, which means two things:
1. I dominate.
2. I am hungover as balls.
I would like to thank everyone who came over last night to turn my life into an endless cycle of Blurg. I hate the lot of you.
It was an average Tuesday night, your average party, with your average skewerkabobs, grilled mango salmon, two kinds of chili (fuck yeah, chili), and strawberry-lemon tart. Which is what everyone in Chicago eats on a Tuesday. AYFKM? What the hell kind of pretentious grinders are we?
The best kind.
Lennyways, hipstery bikes are breeding on the grassy knoll in front of The a.p.t. The party has split off into two separate factions of Xtine's friends: the ones that we share are sitting inside, the ones that are hers are on the porch, which has been boarded and reinforced since the last party we had. The friends that are just mine rarely visit my home. Knife. Gut. Stab.
Here is a question, by the way: why is it that when you're having fun being a jackass and embarrassing yourself to a near-tasteless degree, there has to be several dissenters hanging out on the porch who narc on your fun?
Wait. Let me rephrase that: why is it that when I get drunk and sing Huey Lewis and the News and there are strangers around who are far prettier than I could ever be, I always assume that they're dissenters? There is a great possibility that they too understand that you don't need no credit card to ride this train.
I have this thing about pretty people that I have yet to befriend: I always assume they're looking down on me from some beautiful people elitist pedestal, and refuse to converse with me until I squeeze out about forty pounds and stop cranking shit to eleven. But my assumptions could very well be untrue.
Life is fun.
I think I just experienced an earthquake...is that possible?
...
It's not really much of a game, since there's no way to win or keep score or really any way to gain anything from it other than perfect pronunciation, which is exactly my type of game. Completely non-competitive, and it gives me a reason to feel smarter than other people with my critically impervious lexiconization (I said it) of ubiquitous and debauchery and somnambulism, three words which are perfectly synonymous with my drunken tardation.
Basically, follow these instructions:
Phase 1
Go here.
Phase 2
Type a word into the searchmobile. One of the aforementioned three will suffice.
Phase 3
Scroll down to the "American Heritage Dictionary" definition.
Phase 4
Click "Audio help."
Phase 5
?
Phase 6
Profit
Yeah, I just did that.
Anyway, so I made it to work today, which means two things:
1. I dominate.
2. I am hungover as balls.
I would like to thank everyone who came over last night to turn my life into an endless cycle of Blurg. I hate the lot of you.
It was an average Tuesday night, your average party, with your average skewerkabobs, grilled mango salmon, two kinds of chili (fuck yeah, chili), and strawberry-lemon tart. Which is what everyone in Chicago eats on a Tuesday. AYFKM? What the hell kind of pretentious grinders are we?
The best kind.
Lennyways, hipstery bikes are breeding on the grassy knoll in front of The a.p.t. The party has split off into two separate factions of Xtine's friends: the ones that we share are sitting inside, the ones that are hers are on the porch, which has been boarded and reinforced since the last party we had. The friends that are just mine rarely visit my home. Knife. Gut. Stab.
Here is a question, by the way: why is it that when you're having fun being a jackass and embarrassing yourself to a near-tasteless degree, there has to be several dissenters hanging out on the porch who narc on your fun?
Wait. Let me rephrase that: why is it that when I get drunk and sing Huey Lewis and the News and there are strangers around who are far prettier than I could ever be, I always assume that they're dissenters? There is a great possibility that they too understand that you don't need no credit card to ride this train.
I have this thing about pretty people that I have yet to befriend: I always assume they're looking down on me from some beautiful people elitist pedestal, and refuse to converse with me until I squeeze out about forty pounds and stop cranking shit to eleven. But my assumptions could very well be untrue.
Life is fun.
I think I just experienced an earthquake...is that possible?
...
Friday, August 24, 2007
An ode to the birthday of Eli.
A fantastic birthday nightcap, if you ask me, is to leave Estelles (which grows increasingly lame with every visit), and partake in some fine rooftop dining with several bottles of champagne, corned beef hash and eggs from Diner Grill, a string of lantern lights and Gyna's fully stocked and docked Ipod.
Nothing but the classiest.
Sometimes I wish I had an Ipod, for events such as this. But I guess, well, they're not my thing. I don't need another addiction I can't afford.
Nothing but the classiest.
Sometimes I wish I had an Ipod, for events such as this. But I guess, well, they're not my thing. I don't need another addiction I can't afford.
...
Saturday, October 21, 2006
A quick letter to an old, completely unreliable friend.
Dear Beer,
I hate you.
Love,
Me
ps: see you tonight.
I hate you.
Love,
Me
ps: see you tonight.
...
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