So, the wife and I, in an attempt to get me away from the blasted video games and her off the pills, decided to each read the same book and then talk about it at a given point in time. The hardest part was trying to find something that neither of us had read and that didn't suck. I must admit I had highly underestimated the amount of reading that I had done in the past two years.
We did eventually end up settling, not only on a classic, but a seasonal classic. Last night, we both began reading "A Christmas Carol" by Charles Dickens. I admit, gentle reader, that I peed just a little while writing this, such is my man crush on old Charlie. Then again, I have had a wicked head cold/sinus infection/the Herpes outbreak of doom for the last three weeks. That's alright though, I am taking antibiotics the size of a equine suppository twice a day. Minor side effects, you ask? Well, the rampant, explosive diarrhea has almost totally abated, but that taste of metal in my mouth and the complete loss of a sense of space and time is really starting to get on my nerves.
But I digress. I read the first ten pages of the work last night in bed, and, loving it, dreamt about simple connections that I had never really thought of. Take this shitty little blog for instance. Do you know who the Portly Gentlemen were? Read "A Christmas Carol." Do you know what is usually kept in Aisle five of your supermarket? Who the fuck knows? Could be canned chicken. Could be the liquor aisle. In my particular grocery, it is the aisle with the "ethnic foods" from such fine manufacturers as LaChoy and Old El Paso. I thought maybe that would put a little spice in the idea of this made up personae floating the electric currents of cyberspace.
Seriously, read "A Christmas Carol." No cheating either. Watch Scrooged or that one version with Patrick Stewart after you read the book. Seriously, it's only 80 pages for God's sake, and it paints a timeless social commentary on the plight of mankind and its willing ignorance to help itself.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Friday, December 7, 2007
How Bode You All This YuleTide?
Yes, too too long have I sat in the shadow of my own meandering life, depriving you, gentlest of bloggy readers, the intimate tapestry of colorful excitement that is my life. And now, a photo essay of the highlights of the last two months:
October 3rd, I attain my third decade on the planet:
I think I already posted on that.
November 3rd, I attend a religious ceremony:
No, not quite:
Ah yes, Mazel Tov.
December 5th, we hit the road to the airport, destination...Dublin:
December 6th...Dublin:
December 7th, Destination, Guinness Brewery:
December...something...a few of these:
Turned into a few of these:
Which made the wife nostalgic for the Liffey:
And made me feel...well, sexy:
Then sicky:
Then hungry. The entire gambit of emotions:
We shopped, we toured, we saw Kilmainham, the Book of Kells, Bram Stoker's childhood home. But after six days, we returned home, to the land not obsessed with Guinness, Bailey's and footbal...er, soccer. The wife found her groove immediately:
As for me, I decided to take up reading to the mildly possessed:
That is all from the third circle of the Midwest. I do apologize to all four of you loyal readers who have stuck with me through my many, many bloggy incarnations. To those I have offended, well, suck it. To those in Chicago, it snowed down here too, and thanks Steffie for the Blades of Glory Soundtrack (making that seal a little more permanent on my potential for closet homosexuality). To those in the south, well... it's really fucking cold out right now. And to everyone, Happy Hanukkah!
October 3rd, I attain my third decade on the planet:
I think I already posted on that.
November 3rd, I attend a religious ceremony:
No, not quite:
Ah yes, Mazel Tov.
December 5th, we hit the road to the airport, destination...Dublin:
December 6th...Dublin:
December 7th, Destination, Guinness Brewery:
December...something...a few of these:
Turned into a few of these:
Which made the wife nostalgic for the Liffey:
And made me feel...well, sexy:
Then sicky:
Then hungry. The entire gambit of emotions:
We shopped, we toured, we saw Kilmainham, the Book of Kells, Bram Stoker's childhood home. But after six days, we returned home, to the land not obsessed with Guinness, Bailey's and footbal...er, soccer. The wife found her groove immediately:
As for me, I decided to take up reading to the mildly possessed:
That is all from the third circle of the Midwest. I do apologize to all four of you loyal readers who have stuck with me through my many, many bloggy incarnations. To those I have offended, well, suck it. To those in Chicago, it snowed down here too, and thanks Steffie for the Blades of Glory Soundtrack (making that seal a little more permanent on my potential for closet homosexuality). To those in the south, well... it's really fucking cold out right now. And to everyone, Happy Hanukkah!
Monday, November 26, 2007
Is True
I am a fucking genius. Bow down to my mighty knowledge of the 8th Grade! Nasa, do you need a new poster boy?
Soon, Very Soon
94%DRUNKARD
I have been getting a lot of comments on my old posts. Things are a bit hectic around here, what with the wedding, the honeymoon, and now, the nesting. But really, I will have pictures, and stories, and jokes enough to warp and twist even the most demented minds that read this little slice of cyberspace.
I have been getting a lot of comments on my old posts. Things are a bit hectic around here, what with the wedding, the honeymoon, and now, the nesting. But really, I will have pictures, and stories, and jokes enough to warp and twist even the most demented minds that read this little slice of cyberspace.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
On the DL
I waited at the DMV yesterday for a grand total of twenty minutes to get my driver's license. They asked me about my height, weight, organ donor status, and made me read line 5 on their little eye chart. While I waited for my picture to develop, I chatted with a woman who I ride the bus with. She was waiting for his son to finish his second attempt at the road test to get his first license.
It sparked the memory of my driving test. My sixteenth birthday was on a Sunday, so I had to wait until the DMV opened on Tuesday to get my license. My father, the saint that he is, decided to pull me out of school at precisely 9:00 AM, when the doors of that hallowed dispensary of freedom opened. We were across town at the DMV in less than three minutes. Papa wanted his boy driving by lunchtime, which I was.
There was only one hang up. The written test went well. I only missed two questions, one concerning bicycle hand signals (on a driving test, come on) and the other concerning a road sign that I had never seen before nor have I seen since. I still don't even know what it was for.
They graded the written test, and in a matter of minutes, I was sitting comfortably in the warm, purple upholstery of my father's classic 1998 Ford Taurus with optional tape deck and automatic transmission. My hands quivered at ten o'clock and two o'clock as the inspector went around the car, checking brake lights, turn signals, and the horn. When he finally got into the car, he told me to relax and take the car out of the parking lot slowly. I did. He told me to make a left. I did. He told me to pull into a driveway and make a three point turn. I did. He told me to pull along the curb and demostrate proper uphill parking procedure. I said, "Excuse me?"
For those that are confused at this point, let me fill you in on a little bit of my great state's georgraphy. The state is bordered by five other states, of which you can see all of them on a clear day, from anywhere in the state. Fucking balls, it is flat here. You have about twenty minutes to get ready for the myriad tornadoes that hit this place because you can see them on the horizon coming for you. There might be these fabled 'hills' that people park on in California and Utah, but they sure as hell aren't here. I politely informed the DMV Administrator of my dilemma as I pulled alongside the curb.
"Sir, why in the fuck is this on the test?" I asked. "There are no hills within a hundred miles of here, let alone hills that would have a street to park on. Seriously, when in the fuck am I going to need to park downhill in this town, or this entire fucking state for that matter?" I had recently acquired my teenage angst and mastery of the f-bomb in the face of authority. DMV guy wasn't phased.
"Just complete the procedure." He said, calm and collected with his little clip board. I fucked it up.
Luckily, he did not fail me. I was a mediocre driver and that would suit our great state. After a quick congratulatory lunch with my Father, I dropped him off at his office and sped out of town, under the instructions that I had to make it to Peoria and deposit a secret manila envelope full of checks at a bank before it closed at 5 and back to the office before he got pissed at 5:30. It was a two hour drive each way. I still don't understand why my father would have a bank account so far away, but, he still does, and I no longer question it.
I tore ass down the highway, not letting the needle drop below 80. The only face I saw was in my rearview mirror:
Suffice it to say, I quickly lost him in the neverending backwash of burnt out factories and narrow alleys of Decatur, Illinois. I managed to drop off the deposit and was back in time to pick up my Father well before six that night (with minimal police involvement).
Fast forward to six months later. My Father, tired of me taking his awesome Ford Tauras out every night to try to score some of that proverbial teenage drama queen tail at the local coffee shop, wakes me up at 3:00 AM one morning.
"Son," he says to me, "it's time to get your own car."
"But Dad, the lots don't open until at least the sun comes up...why are you waking me up so early?"
"Get dressed and grab all your cash, you are getting a car today." so I did, and he drove me out to behind a building that I had seldom need to visit, not having any bills in my sixteen years that could not be paid off with cash or mowing lawns.
Behold, my first pimp ass ride:
That's right, kids, a 1976 CJ-6 Mail Delivery Jeep. I drove on the wrong side of the car for the first year I had my license. I slapped a sticker of Hobbes on the back and to this day still wonder how I never got an STD in high school. There was just enough room in the back of that thing to snuggle with a loved one, as long as you didn't mind sharp, cold metal rubbing against your shoulder blades. Ah, the memories...
Anyhow, while lost in such nostalgia, I had managed to collect my license and was walking back to the fiancees car (yes, I drove to the DMV on an expired license, come get me pigs!) when I heard a voice coming from nowhere in particular.
"You fucking bastard!" I looked over my shoulder, thinking that one of my former love interests from the Mail Jeep of Love had recognized my now portly self and was making an introduction I could understand. "How dare you call me! It's over! It's been over for three days! Why don't you just give up already!"
I located the voice. It was a youngish girl sitting in the passenger seat of a pickup with the windows rolled down. I sat in the fiancees car with the windows down and filled out the organ donor card while I listened in on the conversation.
"What do you mean you don't understand what you did? You have been nothing but a prick to me since I started dating you! You bought me dinner every night, but it had to be from where you wanted to go. You would get up early in the morning to go to work and not wake me up to say goodbye, or I love you or anything....The ring?! The fucking ring!? You woke me up and gave it to me when you knew I had class at 9:00 the next morning. You selfish prick. I don't care if you worked a double shift. I already sold the ring to help pay for the cost of me moving out..."
Just then, some gentlemen got into the car next to this scorned lover and she shut up immediately. As I drove off, I thought about many things, but mostly, I thought about how good life is when you've jumped through all the hoops you need to for the day with a couple of hours to do absolutely nothing and not get your ass chewed for it.
It sparked the memory of my driving test. My sixteenth birthday was on a Sunday, so I had to wait until the DMV opened on Tuesday to get my license. My father, the saint that he is, decided to pull me out of school at precisely 9:00 AM, when the doors of that hallowed dispensary of freedom opened. We were across town at the DMV in less than three minutes. Papa wanted his boy driving by lunchtime, which I was.
There was only one hang up. The written test went well. I only missed two questions, one concerning bicycle hand signals (on a driving test, come on) and the other concerning a road sign that I had never seen before nor have I seen since. I still don't even know what it was for.
They graded the written test, and in a matter of minutes, I was sitting comfortably in the warm, purple upholstery of my father's classic 1998 Ford Taurus with optional tape deck and automatic transmission. My hands quivered at ten o'clock and two o'clock as the inspector went around the car, checking brake lights, turn signals, and the horn. When he finally got into the car, he told me to relax and take the car out of the parking lot slowly. I did. He told me to make a left. I did. He told me to pull into a driveway and make a three point turn. I did. He told me to pull along the curb and demostrate proper uphill parking procedure. I said, "Excuse me?"
For those that are confused at this point, let me fill you in on a little bit of my great state's georgraphy. The state is bordered by five other states, of which you can see all of them on a clear day, from anywhere in the state. Fucking balls, it is flat here. You have about twenty minutes to get ready for the myriad tornadoes that hit this place because you can see them on the horizon coming for you. There might be these fabled 'hills' that people park on in California and Utah, but they sure as hell aren't here. I politely informed the DMV Administrator of my dilemma as I pulled alongside the curb.
"Sir, why in the fuck is this on the test?" I asked. "There are no hills within a hundred miles of here, let alone hills that would have a street to park on. Seriously, when in the fuck am I going to need to park downhill in this town, or this entire fucking state for that matter?" I had recently acquired my teenage angst and mastery of the f-bomb in the face of authority. DMV guy wasn't phased.
"Just complete the procedure." He said, calm and collected with his little clip board. I fucked it up.
Luckily, he did not fail me. I was a mediocre driver and that would suit our great state. After a quick congratulatory lunch with my Father, I dropped him off at his office and sped out of town, under the instructions that I had to make it to Peoria and deposit a secret manila envelope full of checks at a bank before it closed at 5 and back to the office before he got pissed at 5:30. It was a two hour drive each way. I still don't understand why my father would have a bank account so far away, but, he still does, and I no longer question it.
I tore ass down the highway, not letting the needle drop below 80. The only face I saw was in my rearview mirror:
Suffice it to say, I quickly lost him in the neverending backwash of burnt out factories and narrow alleys of Decatur, Illinois. I managed to drop off the deposit and was back in time to pick up my Father well before six that night (with minimal police involvement).
Fast forward to six months later. My Father, tired of me taking his awesome Ford Tauras out every night to try to score some of that proverbial teenage drama queen tail at the local coffee shop, wakes me up at 3:00 AM one morning.
"Son," he says to me, "it's time to get your own car."
"But Dad, the lots don't open until at least the sun comes up...why are you waking me up so early?"
"Get dressed and grab all your cash, you are getting a car today." so I did, and he drove me out to behind a building that I had seldom need to visit, not having any bills in my sixteen years that could not be paid off with cash or mowing lawns.
Behold, my first pimp ass ride:
That's right, kids, a 1976 CJ-6 Mail Delivery Jeep. I drove on the wrong side of the car for the first year I had my license. I slapped a sticker of Hobbes on the back and to this day still wonder how I never got an STD in high school. There was just enough room in the back of that thing to snuggle with a loved one, as long as you didn't mind sharp, cold metal rubbing against your shoulder blades. Ah, the memories...
Anyhow, while lost in such nostalgia, I had managed to collect my license and was walking back to the fiancees car (yes, I drove to the DMV on an expired license, come get me pigs!) when I heard a voice coming from nowhere in particular.
"You fucking bastard!" I looked over my shoulder, thinking that one of my former love interests from the Mail Jeep of Love had recognized my now portly self and was making an introduction I could understand. "How dare you call me! It's over! It's been over for three days! Why don't you just give up already!"
I located the voice. It was a youngish girl sitting in the passenger seat of a pickup with the windows rolled down. I sat in the fiancees car with the windows down and filled out the organ donor card while I listened in on the conversation.
"What do you mean you don't understand what you did? You have been nothing but a prick to me since I started dating you! You bought me dinner every night, but it had to be from where you wanted to go. You would get up early in the morning to go to work and not wake me up to say goodbye, or I love you or anything....The ring?! The fucking ring!? You woke me up and gave it to me when you knew I had class at 9:00 the next morning. You selfish prick. I don't care if you worked a double shift. I already sold the ring to help pay for the cost of me moving out..."
Just then, some gentlemen got into the car next to this scorned lover and she shut up immediately. As I drove off, I thought about many things, but mostly, I thought about how good life is when you've jumped through all the hoops you need to for the day with a couple of hours to do absolutely nothing and not get your ass chewed for it.
Monday, October 15, 2007
The Throes of Spiritual Blue Balls
A very nice lady in Atlanta who just moved in with her Gentleman Caller asked me why I had to move out of my own house and into a friend's house for the weekend. Well, my future in-laws were coming down. My future Mother-in-law is Catholic, and grew up on a farm. By Catholic I mean strict almost to the point of flagellation for even thinking of the word penis (not that she would ever do it). By grew up on a farm, I mean dense to the point of being outraged by common occurances (like body piercings).
She has three children, the youngest of which I am marrying. When her oldest daughter came home from school after that required health class (you know the one, its where you learn why you are getting boobies, body hair, and why your pants got tight presicly five seconds before the teacher would call you up to the front of the class and that one son of a bitch would stab you in the junk with a compass and wouldn't get into trouble because he would inoccently state that he thought you had a snake in your pants, which you did, but it certainly didn't need another hole in it. Fucker.) and asked a very scientific question about monthly cycles in the nethers. Mom responded that she had not had her monthly yet, even though she had three children.
This woman was truly upset last Christmas when I informed her that Jesus was a black man. She had always pictured him to be the blond haired, blue eyed savior of the Nordic people. I do believe that she has repressed that little notion deep, deep down.
Behold, my Lord and Savior
So, about six months ago, while visiting the future in-laws (where the fiancee gets her old bedroom and I get to sleep on the pullout couch which is very comfortable), I wake up one Saturday morning after a visit from the little man (you know, the one that punishes you for drinking too much the night before by coming into your room while you are sleeping and taking a shit in your mouth) and who is sitting there, watching me sleep, but my future Mother-in-law.
"Good morning, Charles." she says.
"Good morning, future Mother-in-law." I say.
"I was wondering, what are the sleeping arrangements at the house when you guys go back home." The fiancee had entered the room at this point, I turned to look at her. She had opened her mouth, ready to tell her mother the truth about our sleeping arrangements (which coincidentally, cut our bills in half). Quickly, I pulled up every ounce of my being, and cut the fiancee off.
"Well, future Mother-in-law," I said with a fuzzy toothed smile, "we will probably do the same thing we have been doing until we get married, which is to have the fiancee sleep at the house, while I sleep at the old room mates' new house until we are married in the eyes of God, country, and family."
Fiancee's mouth fell completely open. Future Mother-in-law nodded her head, smiled, stood up and went to make breakfast. Fiancee sat there catatonic, not believing that I had just flat out lied to her mother. She got over it.
Now, we are doing the Catholic thing. Celebacy before marriage. We have had some close calls (like every morning when I am in the shower), but have so far been sticking to it. My strategy? I made a bet with the fiancee that, if I do not succumb to my lustful urges, either manually (thus the pain of the cold shower) or with someone else (which would end the engagement and the marriage), I would get $20 to spend however I saw fit (how much pot does $20 buy nowadays?) and (the coup de grace) I will also get to name our English Bulldog, when we finally get one.
What do you think of Icabod Morton Aluiscius Everdapper? I think it has quite a roll to it.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Maybe Next Weekend
So, my friend Clint from work asked about my little slice of cyberspace today, and in an effort not to offend her, I read my entire blog to make sure I didn't badmouth anyone I really cared about in some wierd fit of rage (I am a rage-aholic after all), besides calling this person Clint instead of their real name (remember Sylvester Stallone's real name is Marian before you get all huffy about being called Clint, Clint).
Welcome Clint. Anyhow, back to me and my neurotic ego stroking that is this blog. I read it over, and man, have I been a depressing little bitch. Every other post is all "My job sucks" or "I have explosive diarrhea and it isn't the funny kind of explosive diahrrea." Nuts to that. I am going to try to stay positive for at least this post. My future in-laws are coming down to stay at our little Shoebox house, which means that I have to move out for the weekend. No big deal, I can batch it up over at the Shaved Yeti's new ranchero relaxo (for those of you who are new to my little world, I lived with the Shaved Yeti, once, long ago). Alcohol poisoning, here I come.
In other news, I am up to over 16 hand written pages of my book and I haven't run out of plotline in my head like I usually do. Hell, I haven't even written about the magic bathroom mirror that advocates suicide or the back story of Carl the homosexual werepig. Yup, I do believe I have found my niche writing shitty science fiction. Anybody know an unscrupulous agent? Better yet, anybody want to buy an unfinished manuscript for $1000 and a six pack of malt liqour?
Wedding plans are almost totally done. The fiancee is getting a little nervous about writing thank you notes, which is always a good sign that everything is going as planned for the actual wedding. I am excited, she is excited, the families are excited, you could cut fifteen swan sculptures out of ice with my nipples alone.
That is it for me, the weekend approaches, and with it, the promise of grade school girl's basketball games (my nieces', you perverts), drinking with the future father-in-law, and drinking some more with the former roommate. It will be a good weekend. Until Monday...
Monday, October 8, 2007
Super
It's an old test, a little skewed, but hey, I'm getting a C average in abnormality.
Why do automatic doors still open for me and cats rub against my ankles before biting the shit out of me? Soulless my ass.
| You Are 76% Abnormal |
 You are at high risk for having a borderline personality. It is very likely that you are a chaotic mess. You are at medium risk for having a narcissistic personality. It is somewhat likely that you are in love with your own reflection. You are at high risk for having a social phobia. It is very likely that you feel most comfortable in your mom's basement. You are at medium risk for obsessive compulsive disorder. It is somewhat likely that you are addicted to hand sanitizer. |
How'>http://www.blogthings.com/howabnormalareyouquiz/">How Abnormal Are You?
Why do automatic doors still open for me and cats rub against my ankles before biting the shit out of me? Soulless my ass.
Old Time Harmony
Well, I hope everyone had a good weekend. I know I did. The fiancee and I cleaned the house yesterday in anticipation of the future inlaws coming down to spend the weekend. I managed to hook up the digital camera to the computer so you can finally bask in the the ultimate joy of recreated digital bliss.
Is it just me, or do I have an unusually large head?
A couple of months ago, the fiancee and I, tired of wedding planning, house renovation, and other wanton acts of adulthood, decided to take a trip down to southern Illinois. We stumbled upon a natural rock formation known as Garden of the Gods. It was out in the middle of nowhere, swarmed over with the spawn of trailer parks from all across the country, and hotter than Satan's balls. The view however, was breathtaking. To the left is a picture the fiancee took on our assent.
Here is what we found at the top:
That's right, in my old age, I am turning into a dumbass. I will post some more pictures from down south soon, but in the meantime, a picture from the weekend birthday celebration:
I swear to God, I am going to have that translated into Latin and printed on my back. As soon as I get around to it.
Thursday, October 4, 2007
Office Intrigue
My boss is dating the Easter Bunny. The seldom talk, but when she needs things done around the house, she will leave him a text message and then go to the grocery store or some other venue away from her home. When she returns, the work is done. No note, no nothing. She will call him and say that she has a taste for chocolate. When they hang up a few minutes later, there is a knock at the door. When she opens it, there is a basket of various chocolates from Fannie May, but no boyfriend.
I swear I am working in some sick, Yankee version of a Flannery O'Connor novel. Sure, I have met a man who my boss says is her "gentleman friend," but she did introduce him as such. For all I know, it could have been her brother or some random dude off the street that she paid off for the sake of appearances.
Things get deeper than that. Yesterday, in a gesture proving that my boss could kick anyone elses boss' ass, she made biscuits and gravy for me. Well, not just for me, but for the entire building I work in (50+ employees). They all came tooling in to wish me well and grab some gravy. One of the workers, we shall call her Clint, because she had a dude's name, but not Clint, has been tooling around the halls in this:
Yup, it's the executive version of a radio flyer. Clint is a very sweet lady, who is both creative and crazy and I would totally let her have my pocket watch if she needed it, but come on, what ever happened to crutches or good old fashioned 'shunning the infirmed?' If you will notice the keen handlebars, this thing has a hand brake. Hand brakes are only good for stopping when you are racing. This woman is going to be racing people down the halls for the next six weeks until her foot heals well enough to walk without this ultrascooter 2000. Be afraid, or just take to the stairwells.
Of course there were lots of other people that came in to wish me well, but Clint took the cake on apparatus, just barely beating out the building's small army of private assassins. Blowguns are so 1991. Many have personal quirks, some have bipolar disorders, but all are unique in their own right. Can you say the same for the people you work with? Thank God there isn't a Starbucks within six blocks of this building.
I swear I am working in some sick, Yankee version of a Flannery O'Connor novel. Sure, I have met a man who my boss says is her "gentleman friend," but she did introduce him as such. For all I know, it could have been her brother or some random dude off the street that she paid off for the sake of appearances.
Things get deeper than that. Yesterday, in a gesture proving that my boss could kick anyone elses boss' ass, she made biscuits and gravy for me. Well, not just for me, but for the entire building I work in (50+ employees). They all came tooling in to wish me well and grab some gravy. One of the workers, we shall call her Clint, because she had a dude's name, but not Clint, has been tooling around the halls in this:
Yup, it's the executive version of a radio flyer. Clint is a very sweet lady, who is both creative and crazy and I would totally let her have my pocket watch if she needed it, but come on, what ever happened to crutches or good old fashioned 'shunning the infirmed?' If you will notice the keen handlebars, this thing has a hand brake. Hand brakes are only good for stopping when you are racing. This woman is going to be racing people down the halls for the next six weeks until her foot heals well enough to walk without this ultrascooter 2000. Be afraid, or just take to the stairwells.
Of course there were lots of other people that came in to wish me well, but Clint took the cake on apparatus, just barely beating out the building's small army of private assassins. Blowguns are so 1991. Many have personal quirks, some have bipolar disorders, but all are unique in their own right. Can you say the same for the people you work with? Thank God there isn't a Starbucks within six blocks of this building.
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
Today I am a Man
A thirty year old man, to be exact. This birthday came on like a northern bullet and is leaving like a fart in an elevator. My boss made me biscuits and gravy, potato casserole, and other such accoutrements to make me very, very sleepy this afternoon. I have no idea what the fiancee has planned for tonight, but I predict there might be several cocktails and some of that "fooling around," or whatever the kids call it nowadays, involved.
In other news, after forcing the fiancee to watch the movie I own with the least amount of gunfire (if you can guess it before you click on the link, good for you.), she has agreed to get a bulldog. Excellent. I have a name picked out. Who would be afraid of a portly gentleman walking a black bulldog named Ichabod down an unlit street? I know I wouldn't. I'd be more afraid that he would try to make me watch another movie and then try to convert me to his way of thinking. Ironically, I received that movie from my brother for my birthday one year long, long ago. It makes a wonderful coaster or something to watch after smoking massive quantities of marijuana. Wait a minute... nah, it just makes a good coaster.
Speaking of my family, we are getting together Saturday night at an authentic German restaurant situated 10 miles from nowhere. Because my Father's birthday is four days after mine, we have taken to combining the celebrations to whatever weekend they both fall closest too. We went to the same place last year, and I predict that my brother and I will do the same thing, that is, ponder the mysteries of what hair care products our illustrious governor uses to keep that political shine on his helmet coiffure.
But, until then, I depart from work, wiser, wistful, and in dire need of a cappuccino, a New York Times crossword, and an hour of 'me' time in the bathroom. For the curious, I'm the guy on the right, and in the past year have become less puffy than I am in that pic. I swear, I am almost cuddly now.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Talk Like a Pirate Day
Tis upon us once again, Arrgh.
part of the fidius.org network
My pirate name is:
Dirty James Read
You're the pirate everyone else wants to throw in the ocean -- not to get rid of you, you understand; just to get rid of the smell. Even through many pirates have a reputation for not being the brightest souls on earth, you defy the sterotypes. You've got taste and education. Arr!
Get your own pirate name from piratequiz.com.part of the fidius.org network
Monday, September 10, 2007
Heavenly Ham
Do not let their catchy advertising fool you. That is some expensive ass ham. And who, who I ask, could put a price tag on the one thing Jesus never ate?
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Huh, Go Figure
Thanks to that nice lady over here for the inspiration.
 | You scored as Fallen Angel, You are a Fallen Angel empath. You have not found your place in this world yet and wander as a lost soul. Your wings have been clipped but you know deep inside they will grow back. You need to fly free and proud. Fallen Angels are spiritual beings who were trapped by flesh, and are now seeking to spread their wings again. (from the Book of Storms at |
I guess referring to work as "going back to the third circle" really counts. Less than two months to the wedding people. I really should start looking for a tux.
In other news, the fiancee and I took a little hiking and winery jaunt down to the mystical land of Southern Illinois because it is a) cheap, and b) bizarre. I have never seen so many bikers outside of Sturgis or so many tan meth heads. Pictures will follow eventually. I have to figure out the fiance's camera.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Blogger Versus Fascism
I spent the last twenty minutes doing mundane things that have nothing to do with my job. I cleaned out the email box for my eBay empire and Wordpress blog. I noticed that I had received over 100 comments concerning such related topics as foldable bicycles and hot Asian anal. The spam is atrocious. But here, here in this little corner of cyberspace, where no one watches, where no bots come through to plaster promises of a five foot tall Asian scream queen guaranteed to love whatever I want to do to her, I feel content.
It's not that I don't like getting the occasional comment (KIM). But I also enjoy just being able to write about stupid things and stupid ideas and not have to worry about someone I know going off and telling someone else I know what I wrote. That shit will either get me into trouble at work or with the wife, then I have to delete a blog and move on, silently and scornfully, until I can't take the ricochet of my own thoughts bouncing in my skull, faster and faster, until I want to shout to the heaven's and curse God for my own monstrous and twisted ideas.
Wedding plans progress. The bride is really gung ho about the whole process and we have been working on wedding invitations all week. I have been addressing them all by hand. It took me two and a half hours on Saturday to finish my side's invites. I finished her side's last night around 8 o'clock. I understand the sheer solemnity of the sacrament of marriage, but I don't understand why every stamp on every fucking invitation must be just so. But still, she puts up with a lot of my sheer slovenliness, so I have to cut her some slack.
The book progresses. I have a grand total of 8 and a half hand written pages. The idea is still in my mind, but writing is very, very time consuming. It is difficult to find the perfect, or near perfect, words and then string them all together until is sounds like a bunch of Gregorians singing about fiction. Meh, blogging is easier and I hardly ever do that.
And now, some useless fluff to up my visitor stats:
Luke Wilson tried to kill himself because the Scientologists told him to. Nuff said.
Seriously, though. Things are very odd here. The fiancee cannot find a job she likes, I am stuck in perpetua in a dead end job, unless I want to move further away from the fiancee's family, which will never happen. Our house is tiny but livable. She joined the Church choir to deal with her stress, I polished off a bottle of Reisling and a six pack. It's going to be a hell of a wedding...
It's not that I don't like getting the occasional comment (KIM). But I also enjoy just being able to write about stupid things and stupid ideas and not have to worry about someone I know going off and telling someone else I know what I wrote. That shit will either get me into trouble at work or with the wife, then I have to delete a blog and move on, silently and scornfully, until I can't take the ricochet of my own thoughts bouncing in my skull, faster and faster, until I want to shout to the heaven's and curse God for my own monstrous and twisted ideas.
Wedding plans progress. The bride is really gung ho about the whole process and we have been working on wedding invitations all week. I have been addressing them all by hand. It took me two and a half hours on Saturday to finish my side's invites. I finished her side's last night around 8 o'clock. I understand the sheer solemnity of the sacrament of marriage, but I don't understand why every stamp on every fucking invitation must be just so. But still, she puts up with a lot of my sheer slovenliness, so I have to cut her some slack.
The book progresses. I have a grand total of 8 and a half hand written pages. The idea is still in my mind, but writing is very, very time consuming. It is difficult to find the perfect, or near perfect, words and then string them all together until is sounds like a bunch of Gregorians singing about fiction. Meh, blogging is easier and I hardly ever do that.
And now, some useless fluff to up my visitor stats:
Luke Wilson tried to kill himself because the Scientologists told him to. Nuff said.
Seriously, though. Things are very odd here. The fiancee cannot find a job she likes, I am stuck in perpetua in a dead end job, unless I want to move further away from the fiancee's family, which will never happen. Our house is tiny but livable. She joined the Church choir to deal with her stress, I polished off a bottle of Reisling and a six pack. It's going to be a hell of a wedding...
Thursday, August 23, 2007
The Full Swing of Things
I think that I have pinpointed the cause of the depression and nightmares that have been plaguing me these last few weeks. I am under stress at work (which I can totally see the irony since I am sitting at work right now blogging) and things are heating up with the wedding plans.
All hell is breaking loose at the job. I spent last weekend hanging out with my Dad's side of the family to celebrate my parent's 40th wedding anniversary. The bride did not come, because she had agreed to go to a wedding in Minnesota long before the plans for the Anniversary party were made. I had to explain to fifty people where in Iowa we were going to get married and when invitations were coming out. I told them sometime next week. The package with the invitations just came today. Tomorrow, we are going to get our engagement pictures taken. The weekend after Labor Day, we go up to finalize hymns and make the last addendum's to the rest of the Church music. I need to get measured for a tux and order groomsmen presents. Everything has to be done now (at least I think so) so that we don't have to worry about a thing in October. Fuckity fuck fuck!
But wait, that's not all. We have 425 people on the invitation list, of which we know for a fact that 350 are definitely coming. The reception hall only holds 310 people. My boss is in her cubicle crying because her boss is trying to take all work away from her, basically denigrating her to the role of a servant even though she is more qualified to do her bosses' job than her boss is. I fucking hate politics and nonexpandible places. I kind of just want to take an epilady to my nethers until they are smooth and slick.
Invites have arrived. If you're not doing anything on November 3rd and want to hang out in Northeastern Iowa for the weekend, drop me a line.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
The Front Has Moved In
Yesterday marked the second day of classes. It also marked the culmination of all that is wrong with putting complete retards in control of every aspect of a Law School. Who made the mistakes? One person. Who got their asses chewed? Me.
A few good things did come out of yesterday. I had a couple of professors stand up for me while I dealt with the torrent of angry students wanting nothing less than a pound of my flesh and a gallon of my blood (and to get into a class that has been closed for three weeks). I also managed to pay all the bills that I had, stacked up over the past month and a half. It is always good to go home and not have to light thirty-seven candles and a can of sterno just to cook some baked beans for dinner. But besides that, the day lasted forever. Students came in every five minutes, either completely lost or completely pissed. I battered them away, answering questions I knew the answer to but had no right answering, until around three o'clock.
It was then that something deep inside of the recesses of my brain snapped, and the world turned itself upside down. I started answering questions with the wrong answers, I started raising my voice to a louder pitch than I was getting yelled at. I almost threatened bodily harm on someone, with witnesses. Luckily, my boss stepped in and told me to cool down, but hell, I hadn't been that angry with someone since my brother pinned me down spread eagle and spit tobacco juice in my eye until it stained the carpet (oh to be eight years old again). I ended up stabbing my brother with a Swiss Army knife for that transgression, imagine what I would do now that I am an lumbering juggernaut of raw man power.
My sister sent me this email to cheer me up. It was one of those "Forward this to ten people or you will lose your left testicle to an angry swarm of militant feminist custodians" but, you know, about the love of Jesus for us but how we don't have time to pray to him because we are all way too busy looking up porn on the internets. I doctored it up and am going to hell. If you would like a copy, leave a comment and I will forward it on to you.
Monday, August 20, 2007
Sanctimonious Drivel
I was blindsided with a touch of the depression this weekend, and it is carrying over into the week. I don't know what is was, but driving back from my parent's house this weekend, "What a Wonderful World" came on the radio and I completely lost my shit. Don't know why, it just happened. My dreams are also becoming more vivid and depression.
It is a stressful time. I need to acknowledge this eventually. Also, money from the part time job is coming in.
I have had this post up at work since 8:00 this morning. It is now five. I am boring, and I am going home.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
The Bride Lives
Yesterday was our two year dating anniversary. The vino flowed and we watched The Darwin Awards. It wasn't bad. I am glad that Winona Ryder is making movies again and has stopped smoking that guy from Soul Asylum's pole. But I digress. This afternoon, the bride sent me an old email that I sent her when we were first courting. Here it is:
So many questions for such a long trip over the river and back into
the cornfields. I have got to answer the dancing question first. Why?
Because it will be fun and full of self deprecating humor. I can't
dance, either well or sober. I could blame my genes for a long torso,
short little Hummel legs, and high school football for my absolute
lack of balance and timing, but why go there? Actually, the last time
I danced was a saucy affair involving sparklers, nighttime, and my
sister's birthday. If I could have just pulled off that reverse triple
back flip, jazz hand ensemble, with a glowstick in my mouth, I could
have made it to Vegas. I guess I don't like dancing because it turns
one into a shy, three hundred pound, four year-old girl, five times over. Either that or I just
never had someone patient enough to teach me how.
As for what I like to do for fun. Well, the three P's have always been
super for me. You know, praying, poetry, and pornography? Kidding. I
still go to mass almost every Sunday, but my faith is my own and I
don’t really feel the need to talk about it unless someone really
wants to know. I do try to write a poem or two, but they end up
becoming monuments to my own pretentiousness. As for sweet lady porn…
yeah, fun when you’re fresh out of Catholic school, but not really
there for you when you decide the word `hump’ isn’t all that romantic.
I’ve been helping my friend renovate a hundred year-old mansion for
the past three years, under the watchful eye of his wife. I’ve almost
been killed several times in the process by falling trees (I’m from
the frickin’ prairie, who knew a tree would fall that way), ergot
(three weeks of house sitting while they went on their honeymoon in
Italy and all I got was a stinkin’ black market journal and a nasty
case of bronchitis), computer avalanches (money making scheme my ass),
all manner of saw, hammer, plumbing, and electrical mishaps (don’t
ask), and of course, oil based paint in poorly ventilated areas
(everything got really funny that day, not so funny the day after).
Besides thrill of stupid manly danger, I really enjoy reading,
writing, and the warm, bitter embrace of a good cup of coffee. When
I’m not schmoozing at the coffee house, I like watching movies, taking
drives to nowhere in particular to see what’s there, and the
occasional night out at the bar with close friends. I also like
weekend trips to cities (Memphis, St. Louis, Chicago, Indianapolis,
Milwaukee, Iowa City, Cleveland, Kansas City) with no real plan in mind.
Where do I want to be in five years? I admire you for launching the
dreaded question back at me. In a perfect world, I will have written
the greatest novel ever, demanding that I need write no further, but
travel the world on my laurels (by boat, train, or car, flying scares
the bejesus out of me), maybe solving a mystery or two that will land
me a nice narrator gig on some show on the History Channel. Since
there’s only a slim chance of that happening, I’ll probably be
teaching high school English somewhere around town, buying old houses,
renovating, and flipping them for a nice profit to help defray the
costs of diapers and formula. If that plan fails, I guess I can stick
to my holding plan of not dying face down in a gutter. I want to go
back to school next fall for my certification and maybe finish my
Masters.
Okay, enough biography and rhapsodic whimsy. I have more questions—
Favorite food? Favorite spot on the planet? Favorite color? Favorite
smell? Talk to you later.
-Charles
Damn, I was fairly witty once. I even had dreams that weren't delusions of grandeur. I wonder what happened. Does one just give up when times get good? Maybe I should start doing coke again, you know, to shake things up again...Nah, my heart would explode.
Tonight, I drink. Tomorrow morning, I write.
So many questions for such a long trip over the river and back into
the cornfields. I have got to answer the dancing question first. Why?
Because it will be fun and full of self deprecating humor. I can't
dance, either well or sober. I could blame my genes for a long torso,
short little Hummel legs, and high school football for my absolute
lack of balance and timing, but why go there? Actually, the last time
I danced was a saucy affair involving sparklers, nighttime, and my
sister's birthday. If I could have just pulled off that reverse triple
back flip, jazz hand ensemble, with a glowstick in my mouth, I could
have made it to Vegas. I guess I don't like dancing because it turns
one into a shy, three hundred pound, four year-old girl, five times over. Either that or I just
never had someone patient enough to teach me how.
As for what I like to do for fun. Well, the three P's have always been
super for me. You know, praying, poetry, and pornography? Kidding. I
still go to mass almost every Sunday, but my faith is my own and I
don’t really feel the need to talk about it unless someone really
wants to know. I do try to write a poem or two, but they end up
becoming monuments to my own pretentiousness. As for sweet lady porn…
yeah, fun when you’re fresh out of Catholic school, but not really
there for you when you decide the word `hump’ isn’t all that romantic.
I’ve been helping my friend renovate a hundred year-old mansion for
the past three years, under the watchful eye of his wife. I’ve almost
been killed several times in the process by falling trees (I’m from
the frickin’ prairie, who knew a tree would fall that way), ergot
(three weeks of house sitting while they went on their honeymoon in
Italy and all I got was a stinkin’ black market journal and a nasty
case of bronchitis), computer avalanches (money making scheme my ass),
all manner of saw, hammer, plumbing, and electrical mishaps (don’t
ask), and of course, oil based paint in poorly ventilated areas
(everything got really funny that day, not so funny the day after).
Besides thrill of stupid manly danger, I really enjoy reading,
writing, and the warm, bitter embrace of a good cup of coffee. When
I’m not schmoozing at the coffee house, I like watching movies, taking
drives to nowhere in particular to see what’s there, and the
occasional night out at the bar with close friends. I also like
weekend trips to cities (Memphis, St. Louis, Chicago, Indianapolis,
Milwaukee, Iowa City, Cleveland, Kansas City) with no real plan in mind.
Where do I want to be in five years? I admire you for launching the
dreaded question back at me. In a perfect world, I will have written
the greatest novel ever, demanding that I need write no further, but
travel the world on my laurels (by boat, train, or car, flying scares
the bejesus out of me), maybe solving a mystery or two that will land
me a nice narrator gig on some show on the History Channel. Since
there’s only a slim chance of that happening, I’ll probably be
teaching high school English somewhere around town, buying old houses,
renovating, and flipping them for a nice profit to help defray the
costs of diapers and formula. If that plan fails, I guess I can stick
to my holding plan of not dying face down in a gutter. I want to go
back to school next fall for my certification and maybe finish my
Masters.
Okay, enough biography and rhapsodic whimsy. I have more questions—
Favorite food? Favorite spot on the planet? Favorite color? Favorite
smell? Talk to you later.
-Charles
Damn, I was fairly witty once. I even had dreams that weren't delusions of grandeur. I wonder what happened. Does one just give up when times get good? Maybe I should start doing coke again, you know, to shake things up again...Nah, my heart would explode.
Tonight, I drink. Tomorrow morning, I write.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Inconsistent Fear
I am tired and completely out of it today. I got very little sleep last night, had a very good breakfast this morning, and was a complete asshole to the bride during conversation. I am on edge for no particular reason. Bills are piling up, but money is there to pay them. All we need is to jump through hoops and get forms signed for joint bank accounts and things will then take care of themselves.
Then again, unless a budget is agreed on for the state, I might not get paid for the month of September. That would suck. I find myself haunted with strange and terrible dreams. I woke up fitful last night and got up to use the bathroom. I touched the handle of the toilet after my business was done and pulled up on it instead of down. It made a sound. A terrible sound.
I could hear my mind telling itself that it is only water through the pipes. I closed my eyes and pictured rails of copper going deep underground, but at their end, in an inky blackness, something moved. Something enormous and terrifying. It was grey and smooth, shaped like a whale a hundred sizes too big. It opened a single yellow orange eye that glowed bright as the sun. I opened my eyes and turned on the bathroom light, catching my breath. I turned off the bathroom light and turned the kitchen light on at the same time. Then I moved over to the refrigerator, opening the door as I shut off the overhead light. I grabbed the gallon of milk and drank until I found myself full, then darted into the bedroom, over the bride, and quickly covered myself in a sheet. Good God, I am almost thirty.
Fucking Cthulhu.
Then again, unless a budget is agreed on for the state, I might not get paid for the month of September. That would suck. I find myself haunted with strange and terrible dreams. I woke up fitful last night and got up to use the bathroom. I touched the handle of the toilet after my business was done and pulled up on it instead of down. It made a sound. A terrible sound.
I could hear my mind telling itself that it is only water through the pipes. I closed my eyes and pictured rails of copper going deep underground, but at their end, in an inky blackness, something moved. Something enormous and terrifying. It was grey and smooth, shaped like a whale a hundred sizes too big. It opened a single yellow orange eye that glowed bright as the sun. I opened my eyes and turned on the bathroom light, catching my breath. I turned off the bathroom light and turned the kitchen light on at the same time. Then I moved over to the refrigerator, opening the door as I shut off the overhead light. I grabbed the gallon of milk and drank until I found myself full, then darted into the bedroom, over the bride, and quickly covered myself in a sheet. Good God, I am almost thirty.
Fucking Cthulhu.
Monday, August 13, 2007
Some Things are Heavenly
More weird dreams last night. I was being beaten by a Seventeenth century Samurai for my lack of discipline, then I was forced to behead some of my best friends for being thieves. I woke from this particular dream surprisingly refreshed and ready to take on the day. When I looked at the clock and 3:25 stared back at me, I decided against actually getting up. I did finally roll out of bed at 7:00 and haven't felt right since.
My boss had to stay over the weekend to fix the mistakes of her supervisors. I felt bad about this, but hey, that's the price people pay to become salaried. I would totally stay if the overtime was there, but this place can only afford one kegger a week for the students, how can they afford to give me a few hours of overtime?
Wedding plans are progressing. I have gotten three phone calls from the bride concerning the finalization of invitations. She is freaking out. I am oddly calm. I had the entire weekend to myself. How did I spend it? Various sexual encounters from anonymous partners found on Craigslist? An impromptu baby oil wrestling tournament in the front yard with all the local cougars? Hell no, I spent Friday night getting drunk and playing video games at a friends house. Saturday was devoted to maintaining my well kept frontage and getting drunk while watching the Bears decimate Houston. Yesterday, I skipped Church to do laundry and finish the electric for the house. Maybe I have lingering thoughts about what could have been and dreams about different pasts playing out to different futures, but that is all they are, thoughts and dreams. There is nothing like love to keep you grounded in reality.
My boss had to stay over the weekend to fix the mistakes of her supervisors. I felt bad about this, but hey, that's the price people pay to become salaried. I would totally stay if the overtime was there, but this place can only afford one kegger a week for the students, how can they afford to give me a few hours of overtime?
Wedding plans are progressing. I have gotten three phone calls from the bride concerning the finalization of invitations. She is freaking out. I am oddly calm. I had the entire weekend to myself. How did I spend it? Various sexual encounters from anonymous partners found on Craigslist? An impromptu baby oil wrestling tournament in the front yard with all the local cougars? Hell no, I spent Friday night getting drunk and playing video games at a friends house. Saturday was devoted to maintaining my well kept frontage and getting drunk while watching the Bears decimate Houston. Yesterday, I skipped Church to do laundry and finish the electric for the house. Maybe I have lingering thoughts about what could have been and dreams about different pasts playing out to different futures, but that is all they are, thoughts and dreams. There is nothing like love to keep you grounded in reality.
Friday, August 10, 2007
Archetypal Cold Feet
Last night, I was plagued with odd dreams. I woke up several times, mainly to turn off our UltraCool 2000 air conditioner so my testicles would redescend and I could go back to sleep. I dreamt of my future children, mainly triplet boys named Ambrose, Montgomery, and William. I dreamt of carrying one on my back and the other two on each bicep across the room, in a failed attempt to "bring down the old man." Then, a quick flash forward where I catch a teenage Monty smoking a lid on the waterbed of his attic bedroom (Monty has the exact same taste as Greg Brady). I took a hit off the lid and explained to him that putting a few dryer sheets in a spent paper towel roll would mask the smell better. I told him his mother would kill him if she ever found out, so come to all meals and family functions sober. I was proud and scared for the kid at the same time... then my testicles hit the back of my brain stem and I awoke to the gentle hum of the air conditioner.
The second dream took me to morning and was a little more substantial. It wasn't a dream so much as a flash of memory I thought long destroyed in a toxic dip of hitter resin and Irish whiskey. I was a teenager, walking in to my favorite hangout from high school. There was a girl there, I'll call her Alice, because that is her name. I only knew her as John's girlfriend, but she was one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen in my short lifetime. She had short blond hair, eyes like dark sapphires, apple cheeks, and her smile, oh God the smile, she had one tooth that was just a bit crooked so it (I shit you not) did one of those little sparkle things like on the Orbit commercials. But she was John's girlfriend. She went to a different school. She was to be admired from afar and seldom talked to. That was all my dream was, me walking in, her looking up and smiling, the orbit gleam of her teeth, and burst of white hot euphoric bliss.
Suffice it to say, I immediately awoke to a tent pitched in the middle of my side of the sheets and my bride breathing hot morning breath directly into my face. I rolled onto my side and thought of Alice as the urge to pee grew.
I ended up spending a semester going to school in Iowa where she was going too. She was the only person I knew in that town. I spent many a night sleeping on her futon, not making a move I so desperately wanted to. Homesickness had gotten the best of me.
When I moved back across the river, she would come down and visit her parents. We once got snowed in while I was house sitting for one of her visits. We drank and talked and the snow fell quiet outside. Around two in the morning, she wanted to leave. The street was shin deep in snow. I wished her luck (she was staying two blocks away) and she drove off down the street. As I was taking my boots off, she came back up the road, distraught. The main streets of the town had been plowed, leaving drifts on the side streets that she couldn't get over. I went with her this time, driving up and down the grid of narrow back streets until we finally found a driftless exit.
When we got back to where she was staying, I shoveled the driveway for her and ended up sleeping on the couch. I woke up, thanked her for a wonderful evening (saying if I could have done it all over again, I wouldn't change a thing) and walked back to where I was staying. She came back later that summer and we hit the downtown bars, saw old friends, shot the bull and when the bars closed and I took her home, she kissed me, long, slow, rhythmic, then pleading, then inside she went. I did not follow. The same happend when she visited the next time. Then a year went by and I didn't hear a thing from her.
She did come back, calling me out of the blue one day, saying that her parents had bought a house in town and she was coming to visit and wanted to see me. I was ecstatic right until I rang the door bell. She opened the door and introduced me to her boyfriend (the name eludes me). We talked while depression used the strings of my heart to grease the treads of despair. I don't know why it bothered me so much at the time, I had only seen her maybe two or three times in as many years, but it hurt. Then she left, and the tide of time took over to clear the beaches of my memory.
I haven't seen her in a few years, the last time being after league night at the bowling alley where myself and four friends would polish off four cases of Schlitz, bowl for shit, and end up picking fights or trying to sleep with the opposing team (depending on gender). She was home from Iowa with her boyfriend. She had changed a little, her hair was long and brown, her legs a little more defined, but the smile framed with apple cheeks and topped with sapphires still remained. I made a drunken ass out of myself and haven't thought of her since until this morning.
My alarm got me out of bed a few minutes after I turned over to think about Alice. I thought about her while I did my routine shower, shave, toothbrushing, and four minute pee, wondering where she is now, if she went back to blond, if she was married. Did she go to graduate school? As I toweled off I could here the steady, even breathing of my bride still asleep under the comforter. So, I did what any man with such thoughts in my mind would do. I reheated some leftover Chinese and ate, standing naked in the kitchen.
Thursday, August 9, 2007
View from The Edge of the Plateau
I heard some where that there are two kinds of men in the United States, Elvis men and Beatles men. There was a time when I did like the Beatles, but now, for some reason, just the thought of listening to Sgt. Pepper's or the White Album makes my stomach turn. Elvis puts me in a good mood, regardless of the song. Hell, it can even be a cover of Elvis and I immediately feel better about whatever situation I am in.
My friend gave me an album to listen to last night. Seeing as how I don't have an Internet connection at home, I waited until this morning to give it a spin. I listened to the first track for fifteen seconds, then my stomach started rumbling. I listened another twenty seconds and I had full-on heartburn. I skipped to the next track and thought to myself "this really sounds a lot like the Beatles." I skipped to the next track. During the three minutes and fifteen seconds of listening to his album, I went from calm and collected to having the worst, most violent case of explosive diarrhea I have ever encountered (besides two weeks ago Friday when I played the role of Spud in my own private version of Trainspotting).
One would think this a fluke, but one would be wrong. This afternoon, I tried to listed to the album again. Beginning with the last three tracks. I spent the last twenty minutes in the bathroom making fingernail marks in the stall paint and praying to every god I could name (Jeebus finally ended my ordeal, Praise be Him!).
Suffice it to say, I feel much better now and am humming dutifully along to Little Sister.
My friend gave me an album to listen to last night. Seeing as how I don't have an Internet connection at home, I waited until this morning to give it a spin. I listened to the first track for fifteen seconds, then my stomach started rumbling. I listened another twenty seconds and I had full-on heartburn. I skipped to the next track and thought to myself "this really sounds a lot like the Beatles." I skipped to the next track. During the three minutes and fifteen seconds of listening to his album, I went from calm and collected to having the worst, most violent case of explosive diarrhea I have ever encountered (besides two weeks ago Friday when I played the role of Spud in my own private version of Trainspotting).
One would think this a fluke, but one would be wrong. This afternoon, I tried to listed to the album again. Beginning with the last three tracks. I spent the last twenty minutes in the bathroom making fingernail marks in the stall paint and praying to every god I could name (Jeebus finally ended my ordeal, Praise be Him!).
Suffice it to say, I feel much better now and am humming dutifully along to Little Sister.
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
If you Found This, You Know Who I am
My name is Charles. This is my new blog. I grew tired of my old blogs. Also, people at work found my old blogs, so anonymity is totally compromised. I am getting married in three months. I spent the past three months gutting my shoebox of a house to make room for my bride and myself to live a relatively slug free life in there for the next two or so years. She wants to breed immediately. I am terrified that the horrendous amount of drugs I did during my twenties will spawn something that would have a shaky chance at best of winning a bronze in the Special Olympics. Yeah, that many drugs.
I spend my time still working on the house, working for a large public university, and working on a trashy science fiction novel involving the devil, a son of Abel, and a gay werepig named Carl.
I think that is enough for now...discuss.
I spend my time still working on the house, working for a large public university, and working on a trashy science fiction novel involving the devil, a son of Abel, and a gay werepig named Carl.
I think that is enough for now...discuss.
