Fuck, man, everyone listens to that song first thing in the New Year. And fuck, man, I'm listening to it right now. A quick search of iTunes found that shit. I'm finally getting into using iTunes as my desktop music player. I've been down with WinAmp for so long ('97, bitch!) I feel weird about switching it up.
I wish I could remember the first song we listened to when we got back here on New Years Eve. Perhaps it will come to me. It may have been Andrew Bird, DarkMatter. That's been my wake-up song for a couple months now.
On to the resolutions:
1.) Be a better person.
2.) Quit looking at so much internet porn.
3.) Use computer more often as a productive tool. (see no. 2)
4.) Get in shape. Indoor soccer will help.
5.) Figure out a life plan.
6.) Start looking at new homes on the South Side slopes.
7.) Smoke significantly less. Or just fucking quit.
8.) Advance myself professionally - work toward EIT?
9.) Learn mandarin Chinese.
10.) Write more (get published?)
11.) Update the webpage regularly.
12.) Quit setting lofty goals for myself then setting myself on a barstool, watching the goals drift by.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Saturday, December 13, 2008
McCain Vs. Obama
I woke up this morning and had a random thought pop into my head:
During the election, John McCain and his lackeys called Obama some of the following:
- elitist
- friend of Terrorists
- unqualified
- socialist
Barack Obama said electing John McCain would bring four more years of George W. Bush policies.
Barack Obama won.
George W. Bush - worst. president. ever.
During the election, John McCain and his lackeys called Obama some of the following:
- elitist
- friend of Terrorists
- unqualified
- socialist
Barack Obama said electing John McCain would bring four more years of George W. Bush policies.
Barack Obama won.
George W. Bush - worst. president. ever.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Excellence through Materialocity
Yesterday was a red letter day in Yuppiedom for me.
I paid off my car. (it's German!)
I activated my first Blackberry (I can email from my phone and.... stuff!)
And yet it felt completely empty. An anti-climactic non-event.
I hacked my Blackberry to remove the goddamn corporate security policy then checked my car loan on the interweb. Payoff: 0.00. The car is mine. Blackberry, mine. I had a mini panic attack perhaps due to two days without a drink; perhaps due to this newfound acquisition of material goods. I've been trying to simplify, goddamnit, and here I am, with a newfangled phone with more features than I could possibly use, and I car which I have had in my possesion without true ownership.
I should have felt lighter and instead I felt weighted down.
I popped the buds in my ears jammed my eyepod in my hoodie pocket, put on a coat, beanie, grabbed a chai tea, ran the trash down, lit up a smoke, then headed down my dark alley looking for perspective.
As soon as the wheels on the thrash can stopped rolling at the curb I felt the cold sting of freezing rain on my face, realized it was there after the machine like motions that got me to where I was standing. It stung and I hated it and every practical neuron in my brain was firing 'go inside, retard!' and I ignored it and pressed ahead knowing that weather is a blessing from whoever just for the experience, even bad weather reminds you that you are alive.
I walked farther than I thought and crushed the tea and smoked two smokes down to 10th street zig zagging back alley the whole way left behind my Blackberry, my watch, brought the eyepod for its' company and the sensory disconnect it provides. 10th street came back Carson familar road drunks staggering usually me past the normal bars and hot spots and tried to look at everything with a different perspective sober, sober night. No new revelations thoughts feelings of any real break through caliber shit but instead I just walked and was mindful of my breath and my thoughts and the songs and enjoyed the cold night rain in all its simplicity.
I paid off my car. (it's German!)
I activated my first Blackberry (I can email from my phone and.... stuff!)
And yet it felt completely empty. An anti-climactic non-event.
I hacked my Blackberry to remove the goddamn corporate security policy then checked my car loan on the interweb. Payoff: 0.00. The car is mine. Blackberry, mine. I had a mini panic attack perhaps due to two days without a drink; perhaps due to this newfound acquisition of material goods. I've been trying to simplify, goddamnit, and here I am, with a newfangled phone with more features than I could possibly use, and I car which I have had in my possesion without true ownership.
I should have felt lighter and instead I felt weighted down.
I popped the buds in my ears jammed my eyepod in my hoodie pocket, put on a coat, beanie, grabbed a chai tea, ran the trash down, lit up a smoke, then headed down my dark alley looking for perspective.
As soon as the wheels on the thrash can stopped rolling at the curb I felt the cold sting of freezing rain on my face, realized it was there after the machine like motions that got me to where I was standing. It stung and I hated it and every practical neuron in my brain was firing 'go inside, retard!' and I ignored it and pressed ahead knowing that weather is a blessing from whoever just for the experience, even bad weather reminds you that you are alive.
I walked farther than I thought and crushed the tea and smoked two smokes down to 10th street zig zagging back alley the whole way left behind my Blackberry, my watch, brought the eyepod for its' company and the sensory disconnect it provides. 10th street came back Carson familar road drunks staggering usually me past the normal bars and hot spots and tried to look at everything with a different perspective sober, sober night. No new revelations thoughts feelings of any real break through caliber shit but instead I just walked and was mindful of my breath and my thoughts and the songs and enjoyed the cold night rain in all its simplicity.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Dirty Thirty - this is not funny.
I started writing a story tonight for Working Class Zero. The concept was that the gambling industry suffered a global meltdown because I lived until my 30th birthday. I drew parallels between the current economic crisis and the gambling industry in a satirical way, but the krux of the story was that the gambling industry collapsed based on how many people bet on me not making it till thirty.
The whole not-making-it-till thirty thing was a total inside joke between myself and my cousin. It was pretty funny until 30 started approaching... as each day ended, a small part of me wondered if I would make it through the next. Actually, it was pretty hilarious. Black comedy, the greatest. I am a black comedian (not Katt Williams black, but you know what I mean.) So I'm writing this story, and as it's flowing out of me, it gets less and less funny, the balancing beam swings from 'funny' to 'fucking morbid' and I realize how unfunny inside jokes usually are unless you can successfully bring everyone into the joke, and also how unfunny it is to think, let alone joke, about your very own untimely demise.
The fucked up thing is I never really thought I would make it until thirty. I've lived every day like it was my last after reaching a point in my early twenties when I realized I had lived, loved, and lost and was ready for what the future held for me, be it death, destruction, or glory. I mostly hedged on the early death part, which as I write, is fucked up to read. I never invested in the future, set down an established me, prepared for the future much beyond a short term plan (with a few exceptions, notably toward white picket fence 2.5 kids mini van suburban hell that has been touched upon before and undoubtedly will be again.)
Carpe Diem, bitches!
And as I round over the hump that is thirty, I'm realizing I should perhaps plan ahead. Aim a thoughtful eye at the future with the child like perceptive wonder I have tried to observe every day with.
I had a short sleep night last night and a long day of mindless MS word at work today which allowed my brain to wander as I copied, pasted, formatted, re-formatted, checked and re-checked. My brain was racing through a variety of schemes and dreams as it often does, many good ideas, some I thought were so great I had the feeling of hope well up in my stomach as I thought them. At some point, I believe around 4pm, the flash of the discussion Scott's brother and I had one late drunken night in Virginia crashed through my head - we were talking about intelligence and its' impact on personal success, and we exchanged IQ numbers, and he told me we both fell into the sub-genius category, a sort of excellence through mediocrity purgatory filled with drunk almost-been failures. Those in the sub-genius range rarely excel; the greatest minds are in the true genius category (160IQ+) and those below but above simple above average have ridiculous rates of suicide, substance abuse problems, depression, mental health issues, plane jane real deal fuck all bullshit. Those who are true geniuses, 160+, typically get into crazy research jobs, become professors, intellectuals, etc. Those of average to slightly above average intelligence become managers, CEOs, politicians, and white collar Johns. Those in our cursed, blessed, range, have the potential to do great but rarely do. We are rarely recognized for our sub-genius because it doesn't shine as brightly as the true, rare genius. We lack the focus or the specialization to succeed in one field because our interests are scattered, our skills above average but diverse. Hard drugs and hard lives often follow. Excellence through mediocrity. Jerks of All Trades.
I heard this conversation in my head for the millionth time and still I will acknowledge my fate, wink at it, and continue trying to do something great.
The whole not-making-it-till thirty thing was a total inside joke between myself and my cousin. It was pretty funny until 30 started approaching... as each day ended, a small part of me wondered if I would make it through the next. Actually, it was pretty hilarious. Black comedy, the greatest. I am a black comedian (not Katt Williams black, but you know what I mean.) So I'm writing this story, and as it's flowing out of me, it gets less and less funny, the balancing beam swings from 'funny' to 'fucking morbid' and I realize how unfunny inside jokes usually are unless you can successfully bring everyone into the joke, and also how unfunny it is to think, let alone joke, about your very own untimely demise.
The fucked up thing is I never really thought I would make it until thirty. I've lived every day like it was my last after reaching a point in my early twenties when I realized I had lived, loved, and lost and was ready for what the future held for me, be it death, destruction, or glory. I mostly hedged on the early death part, which as I write, is fucked up to read. I never invested in the future, set down an established me, prepared for the future much beyond a short term plan (with a few exceptions, notably toward white picket fence 2.5 kids mini van suburban hell that has been touched upon before and undoubtedly will be again.)
Carpe Diem, bitches!
And as I round over the hump that is thirty, I'm realizing I should perhaps plan ahead. Aim a thoughtful eye at the future with the child like perceptive wonder I have tried to observe every day with.
I had a short sleep night last night and a long day of mindless MS word at work today which allowed my brain to wander as I copied, pasted, formatted, re-formatted, checked and re-checked. My brain was racing through a variety of schemes and dreams as it often does, many good ideas, some I thought were so great I had the feeling of hope well up in my stomach as I thought them. At some point, I believe around 4pm, the flash of the discussion Scott's brother and I had one late drunken night in Virginia crashed through my head - we were talking about intelligence and its' impact on personal success, and we exchanged IQ numbers, and he told me we both fell into the sub-genius category, a sort of excellence through mediocrity purgatory filled with drunk almost-been failures. Those in the sub-genius range rarely excel; the greatest minds are in the true genius category (160IQ+) and those below but above simple above average have ridiculous rates of suicide, substance abuse problems, depression, mental health issues, plane jane real deal fuck all bullshit. Those who are true geniuses, 160+, typically get into crazy research jobs, become professors, intellectuals, etc. Those of average to slightly above average intelligence become managers, CEOs, politicians, and white collar Johns. Those in our cursed, blessed, range, have the potential to do great but rarely do. We are rarely recognized for our sub-genius because it doesn't shine as brightly as the true, rare genius. We lack the focus or the specialization to succeed in one field because our interests are scattered, our skills above average but diverse. Hard drugs and hard lives often follow. Excellence through mediocrity. Jerks of All Trades.
I heard this conversation in my head for the millionth time and still I will acknowledge my fate, wink at it, and continue trying to do something great.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Life
I have rapid fire ludicrous speed approached my 30th birthday through a clusterfuck mine field of life and only now feel like things are slowing down so I can realize I blew the fuck past the planet where the Princess and Lonestar are at. That makes so little perfect sense to me right now.
I am so sick and tired of the negativity, the day to day bullshit, beating myself up over decisions that had to be made, medicinal self-destruction I have been putting myself through.
I started reading a book on Buddhism. Saw a bunch of fucking rainbows. Went on the craziest road trip I have ever gone on with some of the craziest motherfuckers. I can't say I found god. I can't say I found Buddha. I can say I found myself again. Welcome home, dipshit.
I am so sick and tired of the negativity, the day to day bullshit, beating myself up over decisions that had to be made, medicinal self-destruction I have been putting myself through.
I started reading a book on Buddhism. Saw a bunch of fucking rainbows. Went on the craziest road trip I have ever gone on with some of the craziest motherfuckers. I can't say I found god. I can't say I found Buddha. I can say I found myself again. Welcome home, dipshit.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
fun police
I was riding through PPG plaza today. It has been a great day. Vonnegut used to quote his Uncle Alex, who, while sipping lemonade on his back porch, would remark 'if this isn't great, I don't know what is.'
That's how I felt today. My pedals spun with synchronicity through the city. The clouds were high and wispy. Everything was flowing, everything was, for lack of a better word, clicking. (Clicking sounds too harsh, too mechanical for the fluidity of the day.)
I was riding through PPG plaza and I saw the same lonesome security guard I have seen on several occasions now. Hands clasped behind his back. Blank stare at the fountain. It is this man's job to prevent people from running, swimming, dancing in the fountain.
Fun Police.
No one gets hurt in the fountain. I mean, not traditionally. Perhaps, but, for the most part, it is pure fun. And this poor man is making a poor man's wage to stand guard over this fountain, and prevent fun. There are a couple fucking dinosaurs noone is fucking with in the plaza. His only possible job is to stop yinzers from frolicking.
And I wonder when this man goes to sleep at night what burdens he carries.
That's how I felt today. My pedals spun with synchronicity through the city. The clouds were high and wispy. Everything was flowing, everything was, for lack of a better word, clicking. (Clicking sounds too harsh, too mechanical for the fluidity of the day.)
I was riding through PPG plaza and I saw the same lonesome security guard I have seen on several occasions now. Hands clasped behind his back. Blank stare at the fountain. It is this man's job to prevent people from running, swimming, dancing in the fountain.
Fun Police.
No one gets hurt in the fountain. I mean, not traditionally. Perhaps, but, for the most part, it is pure fun. And this poor man is making a poor man's wage to stand guard over this fountain, and prevent fun. There are a couple fucking dinosaurs noone is fucking with in the plaza. His only possible job is to stop yinzers from frolicking.
And I wonder when this man goes to sleep at night what burdens he carries.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Scream With Me
I was at the laundromat tonight.
The least sketchy one on the South Side. They're all pretty sketchy, but this one is my kind of sketch.
Plus, the have attendants that walk in sometimes to scope things out and scare the thugs away.
Plus, there is a bar catty-corner. (Some people say 'kitty-corner' I always thought that was weird.)
Jaggerbush, which is yinzer as fuck. (the bar is called Jaggerbush)
So I'm that laundromat. I am struggling with my basket, my laundry bag, my Vonnegut, soap, drier sheets, and these weird voo-doo drier balls my mom bought me, trying to get through the door, when this nubile angel opens the door for me. I smile as I try to shift the weight from my arms and focus it up through to my chest and muffle out a 'thanks' and a half smile. As she breezes by I notice a little half-sleeve, working girls, same coverage as mine. Nice.
She has her hair pulled up in a bun. Tight. Perfect complexion. No make-up and still a knock-out, so you know she's great to wake up next to.
I loaded my laundry and tried to limit my eye contact. Didn't want to stare, didn't want to mouth to gape.
I ran home and did a whole lot of nothing for 28 minutes. I returned to the laundromat. As I approached the drier with my dry-ables, I noted her fine behind staring at me. I followed the fine path of her body from bottom, to feet, up her long, lean legs, and up through her wife beater when I came to a gem -
'Scream
With
Me'
tattooed on her neck. I instantly invisioned fistfulls of hair, furious sex, sweat, cursing, and screaming in that wonderfully carnal synchronous harmony that can only occur during great sex. I quickly forced my thoughts back to laundry laundry laundry. I walked to the machine next to hers, loaded my dry-ables, and tried not to stare.
The least sketchy one on the South Side. They're all pretty sketchy, but this one is my kind of sketch.
Plus, the have attendants that walk in sometimes to scope things out and scare the thugs away.
Plus, there is a bar catty-corner. (Some people say 'kitty-corner' I always thought that was weird.)
Jaggerbush, which is yinzer as fuck. (the bar is called Jaggerbush)
So I'm that laundromat. I am struggling with my basket, my laundry bag, my Vonnegut, soap, drier sheets, and these weird voo-doo drier balls my mom bought me, trying to get through the door, when this nubile angel opens the door for me. I smile as I try to shift the weight from my arms and focus it up through to my chest and muffle out a 'thanks' and a half smile. As she breezes by I notice a little half-sleeve, working girls, same coverage as mine. Nice.
She has her hair pulled up in a bun. Tight. Perfect complexion. No make-up and still a knock-out, so you know she's great to wake up next to.
I loaded my laundry and tried to limit my eye contact. Didn't want to stare, didn't want to mouth to gape.
I ran home and did a whole lot of nothing for 28 minutes. I returned to the laundromat. As I approached the drier with my dry-ables, I noted her fine behind staring at me. I followed the fine path of her body from bottom, to feet, up her long, lean legs, and up through her wife beater when I came to a gem -
'Scream
With
Me'
tattooed on her neck. I instantly invisioned fistfulls of hair, furious sex, sweat, cursing, and screaming in that wonderfully carnal synchronous harmony that can only occur during great sex. I quickly forced my thoughts back to laundry laundry laundry. I walked to the machine next to hers, loaded my dry-ables, and tried not to stare.
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