Not Dead, Just Passed Out

Summer 2008:



Gas prices through the stratosphere.
Over $1000 in car repairs.
Annoyances galore at The Bank.
More hours at The Part-time job, sucking all my energy and annihilated my "social life." However, that job is like a Love Fest Laugh Fest compared to The Bank.
Grandpa M. died.
Grandma M. wants to die, like, NOW!
Still counting myself among The Poors.
Currently sweating my balls off as I type.
The last two women I, finally, convinced myself into asking out turned out to be both engaged, one with a kid.
My adult-onset mystery allergy is flaring up more.

But other than that, life is a Pink Cotton Candy Bra on a Porn Star!

Really, it ain't all that bad, I just needed to type some of that off my chest. I'm just bored, not down. Not falling back into that whole 2004 Madness; thank God.

I guess I shouldn't complain about work, I should be thrilled with the chaos of my job, and the fact I am burrowed away in The Gopher Hole most of the week. If I could just trade Biggie J. for another coworker, I'd be set!
Part of the problem with the job at The Bank is I've borderline "worked myself out of a job." Compared to my predecessor, I'm like fucking Flash Gordon. He went the extra mile to call around and hassle local vendors into selling at a lower price (true, he took bribes from them, and I wouldn't, but that's besides the point), but rest of the job he SUCKED AT! (and I'll not go into the duties of my job unless asked for they are not exciting. At. All.) Basically, what would take him 3 weeks to accomplish, I finish in 3 days maximum. Upside: makes my coworkers and boss happy! Downside: a whole hell of a lot of downtime!

But, at least I spend downtime moments here and there with The Banks interests in the forefront of my mind. HA!

Alright, enough bitching and moaning (and navel-gazing: Shut Up, Spav1!) for now, my computer is running sluggish in this heat.

'Night.

The next TV swear word is for him

I know I'm late to the honoring.

George Carlin cracked me up as a kid (my friend had a couple of his stand-ups on records).

Below, I place two of my favorite routines.

God Bless You George!




And my favorite stuff:

Hardcore Donahue

I don't remember what age I was, but I grew up on Phil Donahue. After school, I'd watch it and learn various stuff that's still probably imbedded in my psyche. Even at that young age, I always thought he was one of the best in this genre, he seemed genuine and fair on all subjects. And he he did it in this episode, though the crap day time shows in this genre today would probably go out of their way to put the kids down; however, fuck it, the kids are alright.

I must have missed this episode. I am glad I watched it tonight.

"...soon even hardcore will be mainstream, and you'll have to do something else."

I don't watch or follow baseball

BUT: after seeing this picture of a Cubs fan (on left), I may start cutting work and lurking on Addison and Clark in hopes of meeting this woman...and praying to all the living Gods, she drinks enough during and after the game to fall in lust with me!

Sweet Perfection!
*droooooool*

The Truth?

Sometimes, I think this lie, told to me with all the good intentions and love of family and friends, may be the root of my problems.

You're a good boy. You're a smart boy. There's someone out there for you. Just work hard and it'll all work out. You're funny. People are all good at heart. Etc, etc, etc.

I've always said as a youth and college kid, "just tell me, good or bad, just tell me exactly what happened."

Or something like that.

Finally! I already knew of which they speak!

Most times, while mentally plodding stumbling skimming through articles in The New Yorker, I have only a vague idea what the author is describing or talking about. Politics bore or annoy me; music reviews rarely interest me or are "so last week"; and ballet and plays are really meant to be seen then read about in depth, I think. Generally, I get through most of the magazine with collar flipped up and head down against the rain of information and the wind of confusion coming down on me from on high (mid-town?), hoping something resembling something close to knowledge or inspiration seeps up threw my brain shoes and absorbs into my grey blanket of a brain to be squeezed out at another time (be it in conversation or in virtual conversation here at My Cube HA!).

And with the people I'm surrounded by at The Bank, these moments are few and far between, if ever, like finding a four leaf clover in your pocket or getting complete satisfaction from a posh wank* in front of pr0n.

But today!
Ah, today. A bright, shiny Memorial Day Monday, I've metaphorically found that four leaf clover in my pajama bottom's pocket (after an unsatisfying non-posh wank; alas, we can't have it all, can we?).

For I read this article today.
And, from personal experience and personal experimentation, I could have nearly wrote the blessed thing myself!

Ah, The Hangover.
The Devil who shows its red-eyed skull after a Night of Dancing with Amber Angels. This hideous Demon of dehydration and enzymes and toxins and embattled livers has locked its claws onto my head, clubbed its tail into my stomach, and shat smoky-sulphur fire and litter box smell into my mouth many times. Our battles are neither political nor religious; or, maybe both at once!

Weapons and shields listed and offered for battle in the article range from the Ritualistic to the Scientific. Some range from the most familiar to the most foreign of items and relics. My hands have grasp a few in Loyal Belief while my mind reels in horror from some suggested and offered.

Like all Human Battles through the Ages, the siege and defense against the Gorgon Hangover is an Individual War. As an Army of Drinkers, Quaffers, and Chuggers, we begin the evening together. We toast one another, we challenge each other to contests of shots, we go rounds and rounds in the Spirit of Camaraderie; but in The End, we fight the (De)Hydra Hangover alone on the battlefield.

We, alone, scream into the streaming dagger sunlight, "Corpsman! Corpsman! Corpsman!"

Drink deep from the stream, eat full from the wheat golden grain fields, ingest concentrated spheres of vitamins, flush thy wounded bladder, and sleep the sleep of Rip Van Winkle that night, my Liquid Legions. That is my only humble advice. That is all I can give you now, even after two lifetimes of Spiriting Slaughter and Nigh-Death Tippling.

Go forth and live!
You walk alone, you walk with me.




*I'd link credit to Artificial Industries author, A., for his coining the term "posh wank"; however, A.I. site doesn't want to load for me.

Sing...

or teach me.

The Dresden Dolls - "Sing" Music Video


Sometimes I feel nostalgia for love from both the past and the future.
Sometimes I feel if everyone heard this song, they's get it, whatever "it" is.
Sometimes I feel like everyone is laughably rushing about, grabbing this or grabbing that; and it all turns to sand in thier grasp.
Falls to Earth and fades away.
Gone.
Sometimes I think, "if I could just cut the top of my head off, tip it over like a teapot, dump the wet grey blanket out, plop the moldy brain out onto a large blank white canvas, spread it around with my shoe, it would look beautiful; this way, I could express everything I needed to show tell whisper and shout. Then I could sleep silently, and dream of something to come."
But skull remains intact, and the secret suffocates under a wet grey blanket. Moistly breathing, coughing spit, choking for a full inhalation of life.
Sometimes I want to sing.
Sometimes I want to hide under the couch.
Sometimes I feel totally indifferent apathetic bored, inescapably so.
Sometimes, but rarely, I don't think at all; and, really, this is probably when I am Singing and don't even realize it.
Sing.

A Dead Blog is worse than a Boring Blog

We're just going to pretend that line is true tonight even though the reverse probably rings more True*.

I'm bored and, ironically, sober on a Thirsty Thursday. Haven't had a drink tonight (read: to lazy to stop at the store for drinks).
And tired.
Biggie J. called off today at The Bank, "my back is bothering me," is what the voice mail said; actually, it said, "my bbaghk ith buthrin me" because the guy speaks like his mouth is filled solid with wet gauze. So the day went fairly fast and smooth doing his job and mine. And everything got accomplished correctly and on time; thus, again pointing out to me that really, we don't need him HA! Of course, if they did let him go, I wouldn't be able to cruise online or go grocery shopping on the clock, so I guess we'll keep him around.

Really I'm going crazy. Sort of. When I'm not staring off into space, half awake, my mind is filled with what could be described as the music played here. Just mildly raging with anger contempt static noise violent scratching sonic jabs. I berate myself for allowing myself to have ended up at this moment of my life.

Where did it all go sour?

I should be drifting in an Amber Ocean tonight, but I am dry on land. Twisting in the mental breezes, getting slapped in the face with needled fern leaves and rough palm branches. Sand in my eyes, grinding my pupils. Stranded on an Island of my own Making.

Pathetic.

Where did the ship get off course? Fuck?! Did I ever really leave the dock?

Ah well. It, technically, being Friday now, hope everyone has drink on me, then ;-)




*we were wrong, a dead blog is more interesting than a boring blog. Apologies.

My Cube Went to Chicagoist...

and all I got was this AWESOME T-shirt!!!

Hell Yeah.
Finally, all those years of watching porn created a sort of Method Acting/Writing which paid off; I became the man in the story.

And then I did a little dance, again.


(I'll now be telling the ladies I am a professional blogger; I mean, a t-shirt is a form of payment, no?)

(that's right; I am a dork)

March(ing) with the black flag up

March 2008: WTF?

I'll let Henry speak for me for a couple of minutes.



It's been a soggy month in My Cube.

Car broke down for a week, walked to work.

I decided to stop seeing someone, still have to break it officially (the hardest phone call, well besides informing/being informed someone died). It wasn't really a relationship, per se, but it still sucks. I only sort of know what happened, I know how it started, I sort of know why I let it continue, but after coming back from Hawaii (stepping aside from the situation), it's like my head cleared. I did not want this. It isn't fair to either of us. It shouldn't have started. I should have broke it immediately when, upon the first or second meeting, she asked,

"Can I fuck you with a strap-on?"
"Um, no."

Mis-counted the meds, so I went halfsies for a couple of weeks. The silver-lining of which is now I know for sure, I need them. The Blue-haired Demons came back, clawing at the door and salivating for my blood. They never breached the barricades; but, damn, they made their presence known. The couch and sleep protected me from God-knows-what, and I drowned any who peeked their heads in my room at night with chilling amber. Then cowered under the covers for warmth.

But, their stench still filled My Cube's air. And now Chavo speaks for me:



And then, I get an email from my parents. They're breaking their Florida stay a month short and coming home. My Grandpa is (has been) dying. As of today, about two weeks to live. Now, the sad thing is, I'm more upset for my dad than the actual upcoming death of my grandpa. See, he and I differ on many values, but, shit, he is my grandpa, so I feel like hell not feeling....well, much.


But a re-fill of the Happy Pills kicked in just in time for my Wingman's visit from overseas. Ah, this is what I need. A couple of drunken nights out with a good friend (who needs to move his ass back here. For fuck's sake, drag that wife of yours back here by the hair!!! (just kidding Doctor!!!)). It was great as usual to see him, meet his friends, meet my friends, etc etc etc. [pics, hopefully, coming soon]

And then there's been work (mainly The Bank): I AM SO BORED.

[I'll update and add to this post later. I'm tired of typing now]

Mac: remembers Journalism 101 (vaguely)

Finally, all that slacking off at The Bank paid off (well, not exactly $paid$ off, but fun in any event). As you all (3 people) know, I spend about 99% of my work day here and here, passing time and attempting to be clever or something.

Progress made:

I got a caption used here.

And a photo used here. (okay, not my photo...she took the photo, but my Flickr stream was used, so that counts, right?).

In other news, my good friend Fresh is coming to town next week!!! That's right, I used 3 !!!'s because he's worth it. My main Wing man is flying in from across the pond for a little American Tour. Excellent!

We, of course, will be going out for a pint or two. Please join us, better yet, buy us rounds. And help me convince the mingy bastard he and his wife need to move to Chicago, eh?

Feeling like an abandoned house

Abandoned house
Originally uploaded by Mac(3).

Worn out
brown and white
left alone
rotting
tired
alone
grown over
has potential
looking for an owner
has a cat
weeds
empty inside
no trespassers wanted
but wants occupants
roof flaking away
beaten-down under the sun
better to be torn down, make room for new
forgotten
boarded up
lost on the plain
for rent
for sale
off the beaten path

I went to Hawaii

Poor Winnie the Pooh got his ass sent to Vietnam.