From Kissed to Kissed Off

So, here I sit at the computer on the eve of the end of another wasted Only-Day-Off; still slightly hungover, mainly tired (strung out), and really bummed out.

The End:

I ended last night [last Friday night] (once again *sigh*) at the Mark II Lounge (#261). Sipping Old Style and having like the 6th shot of Jameson, I found myself wedged way-to-tightly between the waitress stand brass rail and some annoying "actor" ("I just got done shooting this really cool indie thing in Chicago" and "I have an agent, I don't need to talk to you"). I try and chat up the cute Polish waitress with the Marylin Monroe Mole above her lip, but sense instantly no-chance and decide to shut the fuck up before she tells me to "shut the fuck up." Freddie, the bar back, stops by and says hello and shakes my hand, then scampers off to collect shot glasses and the like, so that lifts my shitty mood a bit. LA Kat jabs me in the back and shouts above the barroom din, "so this is where you hide to escape me" and then turns back to the Heavy Mustachio dude I left her with at My Place (#266) and some young couple she started talking with. Someone flicks me in the back of the ear, I turn to see a huge Mexican Guy trying to order a Corona, and realize LA Kat most likely was the culprit. I knod at the Mexican Guy because we accidently make eye contact then turn back to the bar. Angie waves and says, "Hiya, Mac!" then rushes to the other end of the bar to take orders. I finish my Old Style, get another, glance at the clock 3:30, and try and make eye contact with LA Kat to no avail...this adventure is most likely over. Feeling crushed, I chug the Old Style, squeeze LA Kat on the shoulder, whisper (drunkenly shout) "have a good night," walk home feeling rejected and confused...

And very very very alone in the world.

The Beginning:

Sitting at the Mark II Lounge, maybe a month ago, minding my own business, I look over across the way toward the pool tables and see this pretty woman. She's got long black hair, shorter than me, brown cargo pants that fit relaxed (but show curves) and a tight orange t-shirt. She has her hand on her hip which is cocked a little to the side, and she's just sort of standing there smoking a cigarette and like surveying the scene. Her head pans kind of slowly left and right, observing and soaking in the few people millng around or sitting at tables. I take a mental note to keep an eye on her movements.

If this woman was placed in a large room of other woman or differing looks, styles, races, hair colors etc., my friends would have pointed at her, nudged me in the ribs, and said, "dude, she's totally 'your type.' Go talk to her!"

I continue sipping my beer and trading small talk with Hristo and Freddie. They're nice guys, and they seem to like my company as they usually hang out with me before the midnight hour rush in the bar keeps them busy.

I guess reading this guy's date should make feel better, sort of, maybe? (link shown by Fresh)

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.

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.

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?

Free show, cheap beer: Tonight!

Apologies for the silence hanging in The Cube lately; there just hasn't been much going on.

True, I went to Court (fucking twice) against that scumbag (K. Hester: trannie, cracked up hooker, robber, and check forger) who mugged me a couple of months ago. Each time the piece of shit got a continuance (unemployed, no lawyer). At least I don't have to show up a third time, I've been excused.

Other than that, just endless nights going out alone. To the point where it's not even fun, but dammit, you sit for 40 hours in The Gopher Hole with a boring coworker, you get a little edge for some sort of conversation or, at the very least, Eye-Candy. Just a rut full of hangovers and drunkenness, smoke-filled lungs and small talk with strangers and bartenders. This past Saturday night, while sinking into a Beer Blotto, I realized I couldn't remember the last time I say some of my friends.

Not a happy realization, but reality.

Luckily, they are playing a free show tonight at The Empty Bottle!



Free
9:30 Speck Mountain
10:30 Morning Recordings
11:30 Zelienople

So, like, maybe I'll see you there.

And the cork just fell out

You shake the champagne bottle slowly, steadily.
You unwind that weird wire cage thing that holds the cork in the top.
You wedge both thumbs between bottle and cork and pryyyyy.

(Plip)
The cork just slips out and falls straight to the floor. No pop, no explosion of bubbly, no spray on the walls and ceiling.

Huh.
Now what?
That's how I feel a little right now.

I remembered and added a couple more places I've gone, and it boosted me past 300.
That was my goal: 300.
I did it.

Now what?

Friday? Where you at, Mac?

If you're looking for me (or just someplace to drink), I am planning to Drone Out With My Bone Out at The Empty Bottle (#105) on Friday.

One of the Z-boys' side project, Good House Stuff is playing at 10:00 p.m.
Check 'em out, they're a lovely bunch of coconuts!

The rest of the line-up to watch/listen/cross-your-arms and bob-ya-head to would be:

8pm The Number None
9pm Matt Clark
10pm Good Stuff House
11pm Haptic
12am Dreamweapon

Soon, after Good House Stuff, you will more than likely find my sodden ass at The Mark II Lounge (#261) because I'm a fool with a foolish job and a sucker for Eye-Candy and post two o'clock drinking!

Buy me a round, and I'll fall in love with you ;-)

Off to the Mark II Lounge alone (again)

#261
because:
I'm bored.
I've had a (typically) lousy week.
I've got a belly-full of Jameson.
I'm horny (yes, shock to my friends...I lust!)
My booty-call is with her kid this weekend.
There's nothing on TV.
I'm Drunk.
And I've got no "boys to call" to have a B.N.O. with...my Bestest Wingman is a thousand miles away....Fucker! (just kidding).

Wish me luck, eh?

[update---well, I got drunk anyway, right?]

A pile of bar napkins from my pocket

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

It's 3:30 a.m.: What are you doing?

or:

Mac Attempts To Get Laid; Screws Self Instead

Tuesday:
Sonotheque---Z-boys
You've had a two days at work. Surfed the net, fended off whiny bankers, argued with coworkers about what your job is and is not. You need a drink by 3 in the afternoon. You leave work on time for once, but irritated at yourself and the workplace as usual. You get home and remember the Z-boys are playing tonight. You take a nap because you are normally exhausted after work, and the additional stress of being angry leaves you half dead. You take a shower, feel a little better in the warm water, a little more like the "self" you can tolerate being around. The water washes away the sweat of the day, but not all the sadness. You deal with it, smoke a cigarette in the kitchen, watching the cabs and cop drive by. That's the way it's been since you returned from that wedding in Scotland: Cabs and cops roaming the street outside your kitchen window, dropping people off and picking people up.

Everyone seems to be going somewhere except you.

You put on your coat, lock the door, and drive to Sonotheque, hoping tonight will be different fun, in hold of a kiss.

You can't find the bar and get lost somewhere amidst the Lake Street El tracks warehouses and million dollar condos. You turn around and around the blocks of closed cleaners and liquor stores hiding behind black iron cages. The streets are empty and your semi-good mood is emptying out with each exhale of now nervous cigarette smoke. You see a tiny blue neon sign peeking out from the window store fronts. You found the place and a parking spot a block away. You flick your Camel Light into the curb and walk into the bar.
After you show the bored dred-locked bouncer your ID, the first thing you see is yourself in a floor-to-ceiling mirror just inside the door to the bar. You cringe at your reflection, and turn away quickly, and walk into the main room. You avoid any mirror you come across, and there are quite a few. You can't bring yourself to look people in the eye.

It's long and dark, just the faint pulsing glow of Christmas light-like twinkles on the floor and the glow of a movie playing on two walls. The place is empty but for your friends, two bartenders, and two DJs at the bar. You swerve straight for Mike and Brian at the bar. Hellos are bandied about as you scan the overpriced drink menu, choosing Old Speckled Hen Ale just for the name and the fact it's only 5 dollars. It turns out to be a fine Ale and you drink 4-5 of them throughout the night. Cock-a-doodle-doo.
You lean against the bar, talking to one of the DJs, nice guy young, and this is his idea: having live music come on after a DJ set. The music is mixed with other bands and some of the DJs original beats. Its got a primal sad trance-like quality to it, which fits fine with your mood. The fake nostalgia of living out a Jay McInerey novel settles onto your brain, and you go with it. You lean against the bar and try and follow Mike and Neil's conversation about obscure movies by obscure foreign directors, and that crappy familiar feeling starts inching into your mood: you are the dumbest person in the room. So, you lean back from the bar and check out the women and men (boys and girls?) trickling into the bar. A rumor goes around the bar that the Z-boys aren't going to play tonight-- no one here to hear-- but that is soon quashed as the crowd surges up to like 40 people, all white hipsters except for a Nigerian ("he's fucking wacky to listen to" someone whispers to me) and a cute energetic Asian woman ("I think I met her at another of our shows" Mike whispers into my ear). You've been spending time in Gallagher's for so long, you suddenly feel out of place with all these white faces strutting around white men in leather jackets striking poses and white women standing with one leg jutted out in front of them ass pushed out just so with one hand on hip. There's a different vibe among those seeking attention, looking for a week-night hookup. You wonder what vibe you put out, shake your head and take a huge gulp of Hen: it can't be good.
The band starts playing, yet no one seems to notice. The band and the DJs have timed it worked it so the last song on the speakers was in the same key and beat as the first song by the band. It flows seamlessly into each other.
The set is mellow and good and you try to take some pictures (knowing that they won't turn out very well). There's a guy at the end of the bar who looks like a member of some Russian Mafia feeling the waist of a ample Blonde. It's strange, but you get the idea that he "owns" her. The couple next to you starts making out at the bar, you stare at the woman's jet blue-black wavy hair, and smell her sweet perfume and try to remember the last time you made out at the bar: Holly H.. 1998.
You sigh and finish your beer and scan the crowd, eyes stopping briefly on the pig-tailed girl in the 50s red dress white tights, then move on back to the Asian woman in the simple-black-dress whose name you forgot even though Mike introduced you only like 30 minutes ago. Your eyes meet, and you know there's not even a flicker of a chance, so you return to your smoke, stare at the mile long line of liquor bottles on the wall and let her go on speaking to the crazy Nigerian unmolested.
It's nearing 2 o'clock now, and you still want more beer, so you leave the Z-boys, and drive north on Ashland racking your brain for somewhere else to go. Gallagher's is closed on Tuesdays, so you try go through a list of all the 4 am bars you can think of, none of them sparking the least bit of fiery interest in your Ale-soaked brain. You turn onto Western Avenue and see an open spot next to the Mark II Lounge and think "why not." It'll be dead, but you can always mopey-gawk the hot Bulgarian waitstaff and drink in peace.

Mark II Lounge--- Edie and Robert

Friday
My Place closed until May 11th

Mullens---model---link in email?

Mark II--- Latin Swing Night


Saturday
Gallagher's----Ren and Jane

More later---Mac

Happy Saint Patrick's Day!

I'm drinking Irish beer, listening to Bollywood music, in an African-American/Mexican neighborhood, while uploading photos from my Edinburgh, Scotland trip.

All I need is an Asian person (I'm going to Doodlehead's later, so that'll do), some Russian Vodka, a Thai hooker, and I'll have a freaking U.N. microcosm moment here.

Drink safe, and drink lots, may the road rise to meet you, the wind always be at your back, and all that type of stuff.

Mac expands his (pub) horizons

Advice for Fresh
Originally uploaded by Mac(3).

Sorry for the long delay in posts, pics, and what-not, but I've had a lot on my mind. For, you see, I am preparing for a trip to the fair hills and dales of Edinburgh, Scotland.
"But, Mac, that's a long way to go just for a drink," you may say.
Now, true, I am excited to sample a tipple or two of beers born and bred in European soil and vats, but I am going to attend more important of matters and events.
The marriage of Fresh to his lovely lass, The Doctor. That's right; a honest-to-goodness card-carrying PHD Doctor (must I always be the dumbest person in the room? Couldn't marry someone that pops up in this search, huh?).

A few weeks ago, Fresh returned to native land for a weekend of drinking, giggles, and kilted fun, a Stag Party Weekend in his honor. I've waited too long to expound on the weekend of fun in any detail, so I'll let the pictures do the talking for themselves. I had a great time, and enjoyed meeting some of his family and friends (and look forward to seeing them again in Scotland).

I've got my passport (with required shitty photo), my luggage (blue, battered, and heavy), my flight (long and, well, fucking long!), and lodging (right in the heart of Princes Street! The Court Street of Edinburgh! (or something like that)), and my Lilly-sitter all lined up and in order for the most part.

But I haven't a thing to wear! (Combination of bad fashion taste and the dread of actually doing laundry. Ever). Cripes, I'll be the stinky, Fashion Don't Representative of America for two weeks. I shall be pummeled with pint glasses and thrown off the Waverly Bridge or hung from the gallows below the Edinburgh Castle!

Or praised for my "cool, vintage early-90's apparel."

Ah well, pass a bit of the Jameson, and smooth my furrowed brow (and add another church to The List, brother).

Okay, haven't a clue what this post is about.
Later, and more often, I hope.

At least I moved to the right city

And I sure as hell ain't moving to Houston or Detroit.

Go Beers! I mean, Bears!

The Wingman Cometh.

I am sipping a beer, the first in two - 3 weeks (been sick, ya know). I have just mopped the floor, scrubbed the sinks, went all Hazmat on the toilet, and vacuumed the rugs (well, as much as I could do until the fucker started smoking. Instead of sweet Lilac, my apartment current smells of burnt rubber and melted steel).

"Mac, what's up with the uncharacteristic cleaning binge?" you may ask? (And, beeyatch, you know it's love when I clean the bathroom!!!)

As mentioned before, my last and bestest Wing man is tying the knot (clipping his wings?) in Scotland (I think that's somewhere east of New York?). However, before the falcon gets his claw ball 'n' chained, we Chicagoans are blessed with his presence for the weekend.

Will this be the Final Lost Weekend (with or without extension?) Or merely a mournful tippling of amber and black doubles and pints, a wake of sorts, the Death of a Single Man?

Dinner eaten both in and out (and in again). Dive bars dived into. Laughs laughed. Old friends will trade stories and lies of yore, and new friends met with smiles (and judgement...ha ha!). Pins will be toppled. All-in-all, much fun shall be had by all.

The cherry on top will be the kidnapping on Sunday, when we refuse to let him return to the soggy north of the U.K.

If you see us out, buy us a drink or pony-up for bail, yo!

Steadily, heavily drinking, but not much fun.

What has Mac been drinking this past week or so, you ask?

Gallons of this and that.

Cheers, and bottoms up!

Your Saturday Plans are here:

My friend Mike's side project Good Stuff House will be playing this Saturday night (the 6th) at Las Manos Gallery in Andersonville.
For this show Scott Tuma will be playing pump organ, Matt will be on guitar and Mike'll be on "invented" instruments (WTF?).

In visual addition, his kick-ass photography is also on display (part of a group nocturnal urban landscapes show).

[Update: 9:44 p.m.-- Mike and his friend NY Don are making a movie right now that will be shown in backdrop during the set. The excitement mounts and mounts!]

8 p.m.
Las Manos Gallery
5220 N. Clark Street (1/2 block north of Foster)

8pm Number None http://www.imaginaryyear.com/rebis/number_none.html
9pm Good Stuff House http://www.zelienoplemusic.com/music_gsh.html

Come overwhelm your senses, or hangout before you go to Simon's (#210) and buy us a beer!

I'm bored

Anyone going out tonight?

Post in comments, and maybe I'll meet you there.

[Update: 10:45 p.m.-- screw it, I'm going to Gallaghers (#264)...why not, right?)