Wednesday, September 28, 2005

The Champagne of Beers

I was standing in the driving rain staring at the largest waterfall in all of North America and I realized that I didn’t fucking want to be here.

Here I had driven 700 miles down from school with my best friend to rage, road trip, and “see about a girl” and I realized that I didn’t want to see about a girl. At least, not this girl.

There we were the three of us – me, Jeff, and the girl – standing in the rain, soaked to our asses and it was a beautiful moment. And I didn’t want to share it with her. Jeff’s my best friend; I didn’t mind him being there. Besides, it was his car we had driven down in. So I didn't have much choice in the matter.

But the girl? Fuck the girl. She was there at the rail waiting for me to walk over and put my arm around her; waiting for me to make that magical moment complete; just fucking waiting for me. And at then I knew I was tired of settling. She wasn’t the right one. She wasn’t good enough. She wasn’t interesting enough. She wasn’t fucking hot enough.

It was time to leave. So we dropped her off at home and Jeff and I went back to America. It was time for me to start over. It was time for me to find a girl worth pursuing. It was time for me to get really fucking drunk.

There was time enough for all that other shit in the morning.


I've decided to make Ron Burgundy a Saint. Saint Burgundy of San Diego. I can do that, you know, I can do anything I want. And I will. Also I am making Jenna Jameson a Saint. Saint Jenna of Las Vegas. This is getting to be fun. The Dread Pirate Roberts is on the list of potential saints. Let me know what you think.

"Now I know I imagined the world ... But why did I imagine it this way?"
- Professor Truth I. Sweetness, First Patriarch of the UnEnlightenment

Monday, September 26, 2005

singlemindedness of purpose

I do what I can until I can contribute to the decline of Western Culture on a bigger scale... through books that no one will know how to read.

While I do go in for necrophilia, I don't go in for gay necrophilia. It just doesn't get my blood going.

Amy, I don't care if Chris does say that he loves you. He's full of shit. Dump him and go out with me.

Facts are a waste of time. Three cheers for whores.

There will be more when I feel like it, you greedy bastard. Quit begging. It does not become you.

"no wife, no horse, no mustache"
- R.A.W.

Sunday, September 25, 2005

this was never my fight

Why are these 3 men all the same? What do they know? What did they see? Why did they wait so long to tell?

To know all things is to know all things are lies.

It's like fucking your mother - you've got to come in from behind and hope to god she doesn't call you "Daddy."

I hate everything that makes me do something and I hate everything else that doesn't let me do as I please.

the Enemy lives among us.


Given enough time you can always find what you are looking for.

Willy Shakes was a liar.

I once killed a man for his pineal gland. It didn't taste as good as I had expected. But at least it worked.

Smile. It's a long way yet.
"Back Door Sluts 9 makes Crotch Capers 3 look like Naughty Nurses 2." - Chris/Stephen Stotch

Saturday, September 24, 2005

Escape and Escapism

I have a raven tattooed on each of my shoulders. One is screaming at the indignities of life at the absurdity of existence at inevitiablity and the pressure of maintaining at the everpresent ever destructive ennui. The other is impassive stoic calm in the face of the storm knowing full well that life will always limp on. There is a deep and knowing saddness within me.


The Seven Sages:

Billy Prophet:
Oh, hi. I'm Billy Prophet and I've come seeking-

The Seven Sages:
We know who you are and we know why you have come. But there is no need for names here. Come, join us. Have some of our wine.

Billy Prophet:
I don't know, I've never really been much of a wine fan. What kind is it?

The Seven Sages:
It is wine. And it is good. We have no need of names here. To name is to diminish. That is why we left the world and sought our sancuary here, among the trees and the silence.

Billy Prophet:
Oh, sorry.

The Seven Sages:
There is no need to apologize. But come now, and join us. We will speak of many things. We will drink and be merry and grow not old.

Billy Prophet:
But I need to know what happens next. I need to know.

The Seven Sages:
Come, share our wine. In the Bamboo Grove there is no next.

Every morning I wake up. I grab a beer and I enjoy it. Then I play a game of Russian roulette. If I am still alive, I get another beer. Then I go to work.

Friday, September 23, 2005

What's 6 x 12?

Hey everybody, here is a copy of a letter I just got from my new favorite author, Isaac Aronson. He even called me his good friend, can you believe it? You should all go buy his book. It's awesome!


Dear Billy,

First of all, thanks for the book. I did not yet have a copy and I look forward to being able to read it. Yes, it is interesting that we have the same favorite author. Though I am somewhat concerned as to how you came by that information. Are you stalking me? Just kidding. If you were, I would tear you limb from limb and use your body parts for sexual gratification.
As you probably know from stalking me, I am coming to your town soon on my book tour. You should come in and buy a signed copy of my book. No, I can’t sign your current copy because I need to artificially enhance my sales figures. Please understand that I am doing this for you and all my other readers. If I don’t sell enough copies of this book I will never be able to swindle my publisher into a second and I know how much you want a second book. So how about coming by and buying a signed copy. That way you can a have a copy to put on display – the signed copy – and a copy to read – the one you already have. You should also consider buying more signed copies to give away as gifts. Nothing makes a great gift like a signed book. Even for toddlers and people who can’t read.
As to the questions in your post script: no, I am not married. Yes, I do have a girlfriend. No, you can’t meet her. And finally, yes, yes, no, 3, and green.

You good friend,

Isaac Aronson


Ha! I love that. I am good friends with a selling author. You wish you could be as cool as me. I know it.

Thursday, September 22, 2005

Why buy the cow when you can fuck it for free?

It would seem that my one fan (Johann Sebastian Krol to be specific) doesn't like my writing. Mostly because he doesn't know how to read. I can see no other reason.

J. Garrett Morris, the Minister of Truth and Justice and the American Way, has also made suggestions on my writing. But it was something about theater and a legitimate relationship with an intelligent woman (as if I am going to pursue a relationship with an intelligent woman, they are so much harder to swindle). It was a good idea. Maybe I'll do something with it later and there has some talk of it being book that we are going to put together. It's tentatively titled Tuesday. But I have passed on the idea for now. And the one he had about a cactus. Let's just say it was painful.

I have nothing better to say. And nothing else to say. And this post isn't going to end with a random quote.

Amy, will you go out with me?

So I found this note on my windshield after work today -


Yes, he did leave what I imagine is his real phone number and he did write the note in all caps like an assclown. Now the funny thing here is that my car is a piece of shit. No one should want to buy my car. The company went out of business because no one wanted to buy their cars, why would anyone want to buy a used one? Fucking ridiculous bullshit. Made my fucking day.

I went to lunch with an old high school friend today. Yes, I am that old. Anyway, we were going to have sex in the back of my car, but she's kinda tall and we wouldn't have fit. My car is small. And then she had to go home to her boyfriend. Timing is always my problem. Too bad I don't have a van like Jeff. Damn.

Speaking of Jeff, congratulations are in order. He just slept with his ex-girlfriends hot mother. It seems he's the fantastic motherfucker now.

That seems to be all the news I have for now. On to bigger and better things...


"So you drank with the lost souls for too many years..."
- Flogging Molly, Whistles the Wind

Wednesday, September 21, 2005

Communists are not good in bed

All right stop collaborate and listen

It's amazing how much crap I churn out each day, writing on and on. Sometimes I think it's because I am inspired; because the Muse has visited me with her sweet kiss of inspiration. But it would seem that my Muse is like every other girl I know - too good to be true (and something of a tease). Or maybe it's just that I don't know how to seduce a woman (but I doubt that, I've heard very good things from some very satisfied customers). I have never doubted my prowess, nor should you.

Ice is back with my brand new invention

Invention? No, I am not an inventor. I provide you nothing new, nothing novel. I just write. But fuck, if I am not the answer to all the world's problems then the world is going to shit and that right soon. Frankly, I don't give a damn. Because that's what I fucking do. And I fucking do it well. I such a sweet dude.

Something grabs a hold of me tightly

Yes, tightly. But she was slut and she grabbed a hold of a whole lot of things and her hands were never clean. Jeff's kind of lady. But Jeff wasn't around. So I told Rocky to throw her a couple of bucks and get her out of the damn club. After all, I cannot be bothered by simpletons and bullshit. I am a very important man and I have very important things to do. Very very important things.

Flow like a harpoon daily and nightly

Call me Ishmael, son of Abram and Hagar, his dirty whore of a slave that he fucked on the side because he couldn't get it up for his barren wife (to think all this happened because he and his wife doubted the Lord - that'll never get you anywhere). I hunt the white whale. Too many whales out there. Time to go cull the flock. Time to kill those bastards that are destroying the krill population. No one fucks with krill on my watch and gets away with it.

Will it ever stop yo I don't know

Yes, it stopped. No one needed any more. No one ever does.

Turn off the lights and I'll glow

I lived next to a nuclear power plant as a child. To quote a website that quoted a guy that quoted a t-shirt "I used to trust the government, now my dick glows in the dark."

To the extreme I rock a mic like a vandal

No I don't. I rock a mic like a mother fucking barbarian. And there ain't no shit you can do 'bout that. Heavens no. Hell yeah.

Light up a stage and wax a chump like a candle

What a stupid thing to say. What an incredibly stupid thing to say.

Tonight's music was provided by Sweet Robbie V.W., too bad he doesn't have a real career anymore. He was so sweet back in the mother fucking day. No one could deny sampling a Queen bassline so absurdly.

"No longer was he called Odin All-Father, but Vegtam the Wanderer."
- Padraic Colum, Nordic Gods and Heroes

Tuesday, September 20, 2005

And to think I almost became a dentist...

Things I would take with me on my trip on the S.S. Minnow 3:

1. A means to get off the island.

This was going to be a much longer list but I decided to shorten it.

For a second there I almost thought I had run out of things to say.


Comments of Note: J.S. Krol , the sexiest man I know and one of the select few I would go gay for, has graciously offered to be the "good friend" of mine who will be getting married within the year. Not only that he has promised to get married not only once, but twice within the year (likely to a girl and her mother and/or sister). For all you curious ladies, the J.S. does not stand for Johann Sebastian (good guess though). Interested parties should leave comments for him on this page as, for purposes of protecting his anonymity, I will be acting as go between for this potential marriages. By the way, he only likes hot bitches (the skankier the better). And to repeat - he is very attractive (almost impossibly so).


"The proprietor of the single lodge here at first wanted to make this a resort spring, for the location is very scenic (he planned a bus service, too). You may wish to use a reference triangle to verify the Polar-Rectangle Conversion Theorem. For simplicity select mountain dwellers and the pole is the origin. Only once she hit the street did Melanie ask herself where she was going. By definition I have a real job, too - it would take an extrodinary young man to live such a life today. Ask your students if their calculators have this capacity."

- Anne Hotta with Yoko Ishiguro, A Guide to Japanese Hot Springs, pg. 195
- Precalculus and Discrete Mathematics, pg. 475
- Michele Martinez, Most Wanted, pg. 316


My foot's asleep. Ok Jeff, you can read it now.

J.S. Krol, you are SO HOTT!!! Get well soon, sweetie.

Dear Faithful Subscibers to the Greatest Blog Ever Known,

It has recently come to my attention attention that I am suffering from chemical imbalance that is coloring both the content and construction of my posts. It would seem that I am, in fact, not quite as sane as I always believed. Unfortunate though this onset insanity is, fear not, I will continue to provide each and every one of you with the quality writing with which you have become accustomed. Yes, Gentle Reader, I will sacrifice both my mental and physical health to continue to produce the amazing literature that I am known for. Whether you like it or not.


Wilhelm Reinhold Schrödinger, the Prophet of Saxony


So I got this fortune cookie the other day at my local chinese restaurant and I found it to be more than just a little absurd. "You or a close friend will be married within a year." Thus far the text. So I would like to say that one of you guys had better be getting married before 9/1/06 because fortune cookies are never wrong and I am not going to be getting married this year. Unless someone can find me a rich, beautiful, attractive girl that is about my age and willing to get married without a pre-nupt. Then I might reconsider. And for all you doubters, this was a real fortune cookie fortune that I got. Surprising, ain't it?


I am wearing black (patterned) socks with my jeans. You should too.

"This just in: the Drink of the Moment segment of the program will be cancelled until further notice pending a study into its inherent value."
- J. Garrett Morris, Vice-President of Content and Ethics


So yesterday I was at In-N-Out getting some food to go (I had a thing to get to) and two men outside the establishment asked me if I had any change as they were trying to raise a "Burger Fund." Having just paid in cash (since that is all that is accepted at In-N-Out as all the wise men know; a small drawback but no reason not to go as often as reasonable) I did have $0.68 in my pocket which I gave gladly. I hate change and I don't much do anything with it save drop it in a bowl in my house and watch it grow into a lovely money tree. And I have to say that giving my spare change to bums gave me a feeling of such elation and joy that I have never known. Indeed, no amount of drugs, promiscuous sex with many anonymous but disease free partners, or booze has ever given me the feeling of contentment that I received when I handed over that $0.68 for the Hobo Burger Fund. It made my fucking day.

I was drunk when I wrote this. My bad.


"And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press,
End in the Nothing all Things end in - Yes -
Then facny while Thou art, Thou art but what
Thou shalt be - Nothing - Though shalt no be less."

- Omar Khayyam, The Rubaiyat

Prolific, yes; but why?

It's all well and good to say that I have a fractured personality incapable of maintaining an overarching meta-narrative. But it saves nothing. Sovlves nothing. Serves nothing. Fuck, it means nothing. And yet, I say it regardless. Because if I dont keep talking, writing, however meaningless, I fear that I will mean nothing. That I will amount to nothing. Fuck, but this is all I've got left.

I am a barbarian.

There is so much to say; so much that has been said before. I am the greatest, most unoriginal bastard. And that is nothing. Ever more and more nothing. I fear I will be overcome by meaningless, useless bullshit. That not only will I achieve nothing and waste my life completely, but that I will do it in the most shameful way possible by trying to pass of as art the shit that I produce so mindlessly. I am indeed my worst enemy. It is a cripling fear. And so I write whatever I can, so much so, that hopefully, somewhere amongst all the nonsense there will be something; at least one something of value. There is just so much crap out there and I don't know that I will ever be able to convince myself that I am not simply adding to the pile. "There is no way of knowing," the immortal sea captain William Wonka once yelled at the sargasso sea (but he was half mad and not nearly a pirate).

DOUBT. There is nothing new under the sun.

and now for a bad poem


Life takes off and I stay behind
I didn’t want their fast track
Fast money
Fast life
No joy
Viper called
Below the hard deck
No points for maverick and goose
Another one for iceman

Make a million
Why not?
Find love along the way
A happy ending in 30 minutes
No problems
It's fake anyway
Power bomb
2 count
pile driver
off the top rope
it’s over
a new champion

of nothing
nothing to show
for all that I gave
all that I bled
all that I lost
all that I left behind made up or lied about

and bad punctuation to boot
damn internet generation
you are giving me bad habits
what will I ever do?
Like always
Like I always do

There was never anything else anyway
trips to the grocery store
trips to the mall
a paycheck that is always to small
if the paycheck comes at all

gloriously unemployed
“I hear that he’s a writer”
“he just says that
he’s really just a bum”
“wasting all his parents’ good money”

a parasite
but I have nothing left to do
and I’m so good at it
at nothing
so good at nothing
so good for nothing
always nothing
we always come back to nothing
“with nothing you came into the world
and with nothing you shall leave”

life lessons learned not learning anything

I’ll sell it all to you for 50 cents and a bottle of cheap booze.

everyone loves a bad poem. especially a bad poem about the "troubles of youth" and angst and all of that. look, it even makes fun of the fact that it pointlessly disobeys the punctuation rules of the english language (as if that makes it acceptable). and how many tom cruise references is one poem allowed? is even one acceptable? at least it entertains no delusions of its grandeur. wouldn't score to highly on the prichard scale, i imagine. You know, I am entertaining this juvenile bullshit too long by half.

At least it should be comforting to know that I haven't lost my sense of humor.

"If all my heroes are fictional, what do I want with 'real' life?"
- Isaac Aronson, 3 in the Gutter: Collected Sayings

Everybody loves a Pirate!

I don't know how this goes for the rest of you (and frankly I don't much care) but it seems that whenever I get settled I begin to feel restless. It seems I don't much care for being settled. But when things are all up in the air, I hope only that they can find some resolution. It seems the grass is always greener. I have this idea that contentment waits just around the corner. But it's ideas like that that just fuck shit up. At least being restless inspires me to write more often (if not any better).


Scene 4: Scene is the same as scene 1, except moon is now quarter.
Mid sentence, a joke
And so I said, of course I like cheese . . . but I didn’t buy the cow.
He laughs

I don’t get it.

Ahh. What do you know from funny?


Did you hear that we lost the election again?


Did you know there was an election?


Lucky bastard.


He’s not coming, is he?

Breaking character
This is really getting dull. You would think that he could come up with a better device than us just standing here rambling on and on like fools.


I’m still hungry.



Surprisingly helpful



Fade to black
I would blame this on my eclectic nature, but it's really just because I am bored. And not being a good enough writer to come up with something genuinely interesting, I resort to randomness to cover over my inadequacy. What the fuck you gonna do? I'm going to keep going as if nothing happened. I would advise you to do much the same.

"It's a violent pornography, choking chicks and sodomy; the kinda shit you get on tv."
- System of a Down, "Violent Pornography"

Sunday, September 18, 2005

Because I can, and that is reason enough for me.

"Well-known Kinds of Salmon

Atlantic Salmon. The Atlantic salmon (Salmo salar) ranges throughout the North Atlantic from Massachusettes to Iceland and from nothern Spain to Scandanavia. Although most weigh from 10 to 20 pounds (4.5-9 kg), the largest may reach about 100 pounds (45 kg). The flesh of this salmon is pinkish red.
Sebago Salmon. The Sebago salmon (S. S., sebago) is also called the landlocked salmon, the lake salmon, and the ounaniche salmon. It is a variety of the"

Erwin E. Rosenblum, Merit Students Encyclopedia vol. 16, pg. 309

art is just a 3 letter word

Sweet fuck damn! I am on the cusp now. The beginning of something. Poised on a knife edge over the brink ... something is going to happen, and that right soon. Shit. As the great Italian philosopher Mario once said, "Here we go!"

Drink of the Moment: The Silver Bullet (Coors Light). It was on sale for only 4.44¢/oz. That not being so expensive, I decided that I would buy it. It's better than a 'stone.

I am unfocused. Completely. There's a lot more to it than that, but not in a way that words can encompass. And I have quite a command of words (as least so far as the American language is concerned).

Absurdity is the father of rhyme and meter. Obscurity is the birth of literature. I know something you don’t know. I made it up but that doesn't make it any less true.

There is so much more to say. So much more to do. My Muse is a fickle bitch. She comes and goes without notice and leaves naught but dregs. And yet. And yet there is always more just around the bend; just beyond the sunset. Just. Just...

I have something to say that the whole world needs to hear. I just don't know what it is yet.

There are too many distractions. And I am one of them. If only I could just get past it all, get past myself. If only.

There is always something more...

My cat talks.

"He changed the world. And no one even knew his name."
- James Walsh, Of The Hatter and the Hare

Saturday, September 17, 2005

I like your style. I like your moves.

Jeff thinks that my posts have been, on the whole depressing, and thinking wholly of himself and his own entertainment (I would have done the same) he wants me to shake things up a bit and throw out an "uplifting" piece for his (and anyone else who bother to read this amazing work) enjoyment. Let's see how I do:

Since this is an "uplifting" post, I will now refrain from what I was going to write about: being a misanthope and hating people (fucking bastards) and instead shed light on a different facet of my fractured personality. I am a hopeless romantic (read: Prince Charming, Mr. Right, Mr. Right Now, and Sweet Dude, depending on your liking).

Being the model of male perfection wasn't an easy thing for me to adjust to. It came on rather suddenly (I was something of a nerd in high school and something of a drunk in college) but I think I have (mostly) come to grips with the change. It turns out that not only am I beautiful (I am, you should see) but I am also charming, and passionate. Look out ladies, I have a vast potential for breaking hearts (not that I want to, I have a sensitive side now and that would hurt me terribly). The unfortunate difficulty with just recently discovering that I am the one true specimen of human perfection is that I don't quite know how to use my powers (for good or ill). Fighting all the girls off is becoming harder and harder (I'm thinking I may need to hire security soon. And ladies, will you please stop stealing my things and selling them on ebay. I am going to run out of clothes soon. Do you really want me walking around town naked? Maybe you shouldn't answer that.). The worst problem, though, with being every woman's fantasy boy toy is developing a meaningful relationship. It's lonely on the top, bottom, reverse houdini, doggie style, and the rest. Where oh where can I find a woman who loves me for me and not just my chiseled abs, rock hard muscles, and all the rest of my "self." I am the world's loneliest most eligible bacherlor. And it hurts, inside. So ladies, if you think that you are indeed the woman for me, I am accepting applications now. The interview process is somewhat involved, so please, if you have a history of heart trouble, tell me in advance (I don't need another one dying on me). Ages 18-30 only. Resumes and 3 professional references prefered.

(Winky face).


"Two paths diverged in a wood, and I ... I took neither and it has made no difference."
- Isaac Aronson, Listen to the Turtle

Friday, September 16, 2005

Ask me no questions I’ll still tell you lies

Not that I was particularly planning on doing anything this fine 4 am, but I found myself in something of a predicament. Having not composed an article in quite some time (and never an articulate one) my editor was harping on me to get a fucking move on. Now I could have simply fucked him in the ass like he wanted, but being an artist, it is not in my nature to go for instant gratification. And being a misanthope, it is not in my nature to give a shit what other people want. (Not being homosexual simply compounded the problem). And wanting to prolong my suffering as I am loath to do (suffering creates art; any fuckwit can tell you that) I girded my loins to compose this ode to the decaying civilization of Man. Yes, faithful reader, I am suffering slings and arrows for you, so that I might bring to you these words, so dripping with possibility, as I am. Be grateful.

Death is not the problem. Let a thought like that sink in for a fucking second. (And yes, I will be using profanity in nearly every available opportunity. It amuses me to do so.) The problem with Life is not Death, though so many would think it so. But Death is easy. Death is a great adventure. Sure one fears what one does not and cannot know, but fear is a simple thing. It’s just that, for most of us anyway, Death is such a distant thing that it is often easily put from the mind. Contemplating one’s mortality is such a vile business. So then the inevitability of the end not really being that big of an issue, what the fuck is the problem? What indeed causes life to be so unbearable? Maintenance. Keeping up the damn façade. Routine and all the rest of this fucking ballyhoo. Death is easy, it’s inevitable; it can’t be stopped and thus it can be ignored. But Life, going on, maintaining the elaborate web of lies woven to keep my ass entertained. That gets to be a bitch. Not because it is hard or unbearable in any conventional sense, but because it is just so fucking dull. So much of the dreaded Same. The greater ennui of the fucking shit is what slowly drives one to madness. (And if you aren’t bored with life then you are probably too fucking dumb to realize that you should be.) After all, what's left to consider. If Life is simply a means to prolonge itself, continue living, then what is the fucking point? Not that I ever contemplate suicide, but sometimes it gets to the point where you just want to light up a smoke and go to sleep on a bed of gasoline. Living to work to eat to work to eat to live to die later on seems not only to be a terrible bore but a waste of time and space. Clearly there has to be more. But as I tend to enjoy eating most days and want to continue to do so, I am somewhat bound to the chains of Labor. If I do not work I will not eat. If I do not eat I will not live. And while Death doesn't seem like that big of a deal to me, I don't really want to die of starvation because I found working to be too boring. Not the kind of noble death the bards sing about. And since the bards are already preparing a glorious ode (I hear they plan on it taking at least 3 days to sing from beginning to end, they anticipate many a noble deed, etc.) I wouldn't want to dissapoint. So now comes the part that I will be bringing up ad nauseum until I accomplish something of note or die in obscurity:

So what comes next? Where the fuck do I go from here?

And to think I can do this all with a smirk.

* * *

“I want to be able to surrender myself to a woman ... I want her to take me out of myself. But to do that, she’s got to be better than I am; she’s got to have mind, not just a cunt. She’s got to make me believe that I need her, that I can’t live without her. Find me a cunt like that, will you? If you could do that I’d give you my job. I wouldn’t care then what happened to me: I wouldn’t need a job or friends or books or anything. If she could only make me believe that there was something more important on earth than myself. Jesus, I hate myself! But I hate these bastardly cunts even more – because they’re none of them any good.”
– Henry Miller, Tropic of Cancer

Tuesday, September 13, 2005

I've never killed a man

I was going to write another self-pity post about how I hate my life and what it has become. Mostly because that is what I have been writing for so long and going over things I have written that is about all I see. I regret every single decision I have ever made. And then there's that.

So if I am not going to be self-pitying anymore, then what? It's not like I suddenly have a brighter outlook now. Because I don't. So I'll digress.

"Life is the unknown and unknowable, except that we are put into this world to eat, to stay alive as long as we possibly can." -Richard Bach, Jonathan Livingston Seagull

Yeah, that sounds about right. I think I will go do that. It seems so much easier than having hopes and dreams that will never (can never) come true. And I am hungry.

Unless I'm dead or decide not to come...

- I’m not concerned.
- Huh?
- I’m not concerned with what she says.
- What do you mean? Why?
- Why? Because fuck it. Fuck it. Fuck what she says.
- What do you mean, fuck it?
- Here’s the thing. I want to go out with her. You know, the relationship deal. If she’s not down with that, then fuck it. Might as well get it over with as soon as possible if it isn’t going anywhere.
- I guess that makes sense.
- Yeah, I mean I don’t need to prolong the bullshit if nothings happening. Get this over with and get on with the next one.

I just really don’t want to be alone anymore.

* * *

I'm not depressed. It's that life simply seems to pass me by. More of a personal choice to let it and all. As a writer I plan on telling the story of the guy out in the trenches, not actually being that guy. I've only ever been that guy when being that guy was a bad thing. Fuck, huh. But life is passing me by. So much of what I think I want I just let slip by. I don't know what I want. Passion is just so hard for me to fake. And I haven't really cared about something in a long fucking time. Sigh. So I really don't know what comes next. I mean... life, reality, all of that, it don't mean shit on its own. So there's that.

"A moment of silence please for those who never get the chance. They show up to the party but are never asked to dance." - Streetlight Manifesto, "A Moment of Silence"

Sunday, September 11, 2005

My Dartmouth Diploma is a Waste of Paper

That I am wasting my life and my college degree is an opinion shared by the majority of people who know me. It's not a position with which I have much room to argue. I mean, I did go to an Ivy League school just to be an entry level employee at a franchise coffee bar. And if that is all you see, then yes, I did waste my college degree, my life and so much else. That and you are a money grubbing whore.

I am an unambitious man. I want none of the success that my friends have so quickly achieved mostly because I do not want to responsibilities that go along with said success. But as is the way with those on the "fast track" (to quote the glorious '80s colloquialism) they just don't understand a value system other than their own. (Blanket staments are the best way for coming to an acurate understanding). I get the most condescending looks nowadays from people when the find out what I am doing with my life (or rather what I am not doing with my life). After all, there are seemingly only two value systems that are acceptable for a red-blooded American boy to adopt: either I should be out to make as much damn money as possible, or I should try to help people in any way I can and thus "give back" to the community. Fuck all that. I've never much cared for money (I like getting new things and such, but I never put much stock in things) but I don't really give a shit about other people. So that throws out helping people. I only help people if it helps me (or entertains me, etc.). So there you go.

So what does that leave? Not a whole hell of a lot. Except that I am not as unambitious as I seem. Just not in the conventional sense. Sure I don't care too much about being rich or powerful (though I wouldn't mind being rich and I think I might enjoy being famous), but there is more to it than that. I want to leave my mark on the world (not through world domination or any bullshit like that). I want to be remembered (and hopefully remembered well). And I'm working on it. I'll let you know how it goes.

"Everyone is interested in pigeons." - Whitwell Elwin (more prophetic words have ne'er been uttered)

Saturday, September 10, 2005

setting the record straight

So, now that I have figured out how to work this thing I guess I should establish a format of sorts. You need rules before you can break them. My personal life is dull, boring, and little worthy of mention. The parts that aren't are not for you consumption, faithful reader. To continue...

Everything I say is a lie. So will be the majority of what I write. It's not that it is entirely intentional, I just can't tell the difference anymore. This being a rather open forum, I will write whatever I please - my opinions (nearly all bad), my thoughts (nearly completely incoherent), and whatever else I please.

Drink of the Moment: a Beringer White Zinfandel (2000). I'm not much of a wine guy (I'm working on that) but this isn't that bad. A Napa Valley vintage, though I am uncertain how much it retails for.

If I so choose, I will end my sentences with prepositions and abandon all other rules of conventional grammer. I'll give Lynne Truss something to complain about.

I think I have run out of things to say for the moment. Oh well, what the hell.

Friday, September 9, 2005

The Details of My Life are Quite Inconsequential

and yet...

To quote the Prophet, "that horse is not dead." And so I continue with this glorious travesty I call my life.

You see, it breaks down like this: I am young, talented, and directionless. I am a writer, but of nothing of consequence. And i have no marketable skills or at least not in any convential sense. So I can't really get a 'real' job. I'm not qualified or interested. Go on...

So I'm in a pretty fucked position. Untenable to say the least. So what next? I tried drinking my way out of the situation the other day. It didn't work quite the way I planned - I passed out. It would seem that the image of the brilliant drunken writer is mostly an illusion. There is a very notable picture of Sakaguchi Ango* at his cluttered writing desk - cigarette butts scattered with wild abandon, half-full glasses of whisky, half-empty bottles of sake, and the like - and it is indeed something to aspire to, but then again he used speed to help with his writing and the liquor to temper the amphetemines. So to any of you young kids out there (not that anyone is reading this but me) drinking does not make you a better writer. It just makes you fall asleep (I have no recollection of other consequences but the black outs leave time enough for anything).

Drink of the Moment: Prairie Fire (1 shot tequila, as many drops tabasco as you can handle)

It burns so pretty down the throat. The tequila burns on the way down (as alcohol is loath to do) and the tabasco burns its way back up. That shit will wake you up.

On to more important matters...

* For those of you who do not know, Sakaguchi Ango (1906-1955), was a Japanese writer of some renown. He got most of his acclaim from his short essays: "A Personal View of Japanese Culture"(1942), "Pearls"(1942), and "Discourse on Decadence"(1946). They provided a unique iconoclastic view on wartime and postwar Japan. He was one of the writers on whom I composed my honors thesis. You should check his work out - good stuff.

Getting off to a bad start

Living a life such as mine, so carefree and full of regret as it is, I felt obligated to subject the world to my uselessness (which according to Jeff is only just barely greater than my novelty) and nonsense. It's not that I have anything particular to say, but rather than I, like so many of you I would imagine, have the unbearable desire to waste other people's time with my life stories (most of which are lies, not entirely my fault). To quote Edgar Poe, I do this "having no other inducement than a kind of nervous restlessness which haunt[s] me as a fiend." And so it begins. Go on...