Saturday, May 22, 2004
How am I supposed to wallow properly when I can't get drunk? How the fuck am I supposed to get properly shitfaced when some unnamed individual has already drank every last drop of hard alcohol in the house and filled the bottles with water to hide the fact? I must admit, when the first sip of Bombay Sapphire was that smooth my first reactin was to wonder at the marvelous strides my tolerance had made. After downing the glass, I returned to the bottle and downed its entire contents in seconds flat. When did I succeed in becoming such a hard-drinking man?

The hard-drinking man: he who has been abandoned by all society and has friend only in drink. I'd quote Daniel Clowes on the subject, but all my books remain packed away in individual boxes emblazoned with the corporate logos of Sysco, Ghirardelli, Snyder's of Hanover, and those of various breweries. You too can become a hard-drinking man (or woman if so yonically inclined) by following the following steps:

You first work a ten-hour shift, during which time you encounter not a soul whom you would ordinarily consider a friend. It is not a hard shift, nor one marked by particularly irritating clientele (though you realize that, ten years ago, the group of emo kids would all have been wearing suits and porkpie hats and braced to skank at the first sound of an off-beat) After this, you proceed to the local hipfuck watering hole, thinking that after three years in a city, one of which has been spent working a block away from said hole, you would find a soul or two with whom to share a frosty libation.

Moments before entering said hole, you are hailed by a gentleman leaving the establishment. Due to the vicissitudes of hairstyles, you do not recognize this gentleman until he has already vanished into the evening's post-Spring-thunderstorm cool dim. You do not realize that this brief acknowledgement, not even returned, was to be savored. And so you head inside, wondering what adventures await.

{your humble narrator has discovered, on closer examination, the necessary ingredients to create something closely akin to what one His Dudeness is given to call "a Caucasian." This, sadly, is not even vaguely what is required of the hard-drinking man, but must suffice for the time being}

It is inside that you find reason for existential quandary. For every person you see and recognize proceeds to ignore the aforementioned existence of such an entity as yourself. Often this will be prefaced by a quick acknowledgement, a response to a greeting, in short: the bare minimum to maintain the illusion of any kind of civility or cohesiveness in what is largely considered a non-exclusionary social scene (so-called).

{At this point in the narrative, your humble narrator feels it important to mention the following fact: on traveling upstairs from his basement hovel to find a proper implement to stir his abovemetioned cocktail (a rusty nail, perhaps, or a plastic-tipped cigar, though in the end a stainless-steel spoon had to suffice) he found the carpet desecrated by the house's canine and himself with no choice but to clean it and imprison the obedience-impaired mutt, thus providing an ideal end to such an evening.}

Your next step in this scenario is to begin wondering if this scenario can be tracked back to any particular external signifier-- spinach on your teeth in a metaphysical or metaphorical sense [at this point the post ends rather abruptly. I don't remember exactly where I was going with this, but it had something to do with being all depressed because a bunch of people I barely know were all ignoring me. boo fuggin' hoo. -Ed]
Sunday, May 16, 2004
Tekkikal Diffukultiz

Internet at new place comes and goes like salesman father (grunt) back up for the moment after two days down (grunt) Must call and bitch at cable company (grunt grunt)

Will update further later, if able.
Monday, May 10, 2004
Back! (With Actual Valid Excuse(s))

It is a sad truth of my existence that I am a stone sucker for a sweet pair of eyes. Lucky thing for me the most recent pair to come into my life don't belong to a person. But I'm not such a sucker that I let the eyes' owners get away with anything anything... be the owner canine or female.

Example One:

Megan is asleep on the chair. I tell her to get in her house (she knows what I mean) but she does nothing. I tip the chair to get her up and she trots over in the direction of her crate... but circles around as soon as she gets under the table, stripping me (following to shut the door behind her) like a professional footballer. By the time I catch up she is luxuriating on the carpet. I don't even give her the time to give me her patented "What, me a bad dog?" look before whomping her on the nose. She gets up and goes right where she knows she's supposed to be.

Example Two:

Last night at the going away party for a coworker running off to Japan. Said coworker has invited the person I most want, of late, to avoid... I think she didn't think I knew (though I did) and was looking forward to seeing me squirm. As it was, it was an act of masochism of me even to show up. But when I arrived she (along with some people I had actually hoped to see there) was not in attendance to be seen and so I got to drinking and (compulsory) dancing and managed to have a very good time.

And of course I go to use the restroom, as soon as I come out I see her -- back turned to me -- and momentarily contemplate ducking back in. Too late, coworker has already pointed me out. I avoid looking into her eyes, as they are my kryptonite: one look and I lose 50 IQ points and basic motor function. I barely pause to mutter a flat "hi" on my way to the bar, where I order a suddenly-needed scotch.


"Which one is that?"

"Glenfiddich-- the one right next to the Johnnie Walker."

"That's 8 dollars... which is a lot, so I gave you some extra. That's what we call a healthy amount."

"Tell that to my liver."

I am aware at this point that she's standing over my left shoulder, but I pay, tip generously, and begin drinking. The bartender, on the other hand, sees her and acknowledges her by saying her last name over and over, voicing the last consonant so that it sounds like a synonym for subterfuge. Finally she sits down next to me, grabs my shoulder and asks how I'm doing.

Here's the key gesture, the whomp on the nose. I hold up the scotch and say, "I'm doin' good." The delightful spirit allows me to turn to her and once again avoid the eyes, but it also implies tht my statement was one of immediacy: I have a drink, so I'm ok. This is how I'm doing at this exact moment, and it's all you're entitled to know. Anybody else I would tell of my recent ordeals in moving, or about my automobile accident, or even how slow the Cafe had been for Mother's Day. All she gets is I have a drink, so it's all good.

At that point somebody who actually wanted to talk to her came by and did just that, so I took another swig, swung out clockwise, and headed back out into the bar. I said my goodbyes to the coworker (who was busy laying her mack down), took a few more sips out of my absurdly overfilled glass, set it on the nearest convenient surface and walked out.

That went into more detail than expected... it was began merely as a comment on the doggy's sweet sweet eyes and how she seemed to believe they gave her license to do whatsoever she pleased, and a thought on how they're the only pair of sweet eyes I need or even remotely want in my life right now. Then it ballooned (as these things tend to do) into a tale of pathetic triumph-- the only victory life allows me.

And yes, you will eventually be hearing the tale of my moving and automotive woes. The Cafe on Mother's Day is pretty self-explanatory: it's really no place to take mom.
In lighter news, we have:

DOOM on the American political front (via Skallas)
DOOM for human society (via Chairman Bruce)
DOOM for the entire biosphere (via Snarkout)

Oh yes, and the promised valid excuse: My computer was packed away in a box for a week. When I finally got it set up, I needed to get a wireless ethernet card to access the house network. No internet access... good enough excuse, ya buzzards?

Fun game: count the colons in this entry!

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