Thursday, June 7, 2012
Summer Mood
It's the first week of June now, and the days are getting extremely long here in the flatlands. Most nights it doesn't get totally dark until 10 PM. Some days, when the sun cuts through the air just right, I get that same feeling that I had when I first moved here. A feeling of infinite possibility, new beginnings, and just a touch of the familiar, like vestiges of long-forgotten childhood memories. This deja vu is generally fleeting.
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
Returning from a leave of absence;
It's now been ten whole months since I moved to Indiana. I still don't have any friends here, and the closest thing I have to a friend is the guy who owns the comic book store that I frequent, or maybe the cute girl with the amazing hazel eyes that sells me cigarettes and Red Bull most days. I still smoke cigarettes, but I'm pretty much over getting high or drunk. Isn't that something? That used to be my life, practically. But I don't even enjoy it anymore. Maybe it's because getting inebriated by yourself is pretty lame.
I'm a licensed driver, I'm about to make my third payment on my new car, and I work over 40 hours a week. I pay all of my bills on time. I hang out with my nieces a lot, and it's amazing to see the people they're developing into.
Other than that, I've recorded a new CD with 12 tracks on it, I've painted a lot of pictures that aren't so great, and I've started collecting comic books. That's my new obsession. I'm not big on your average superhero comics, other than Batman because Batman rules. I mainly collect horror comics, although I recently picked up the first ten issues of a Beavis and Butt-head comic book that came out in the 90s. My collection is pretty bizarre, actually. But I love it.
Whoops. New laptop's battery is low. I started this post to explain that I haven't been posting because of a lack of a computer of my own. Now I have one! So long.
This post is garbage. Gotta love stream-of-consciousness.
I'm a licensed driver, I'm about to make my third payment on my new car, and I work over 40 hours a week. I pay all of my bills on time. I hang out with my nieces a lot, and it's amazing to see the people they're developing into.
Other than that, I've recorded a new CD with 12 tracks on it, I've painted a lot of pictures that aren't so great, and I've started collecting comic books. That's my new obsession. I'm not big on your average superhero comics, other than Batman because Batman rules. I mainly collect horror comics, although I recently picked up the first ten issues of a Beavis and Butt-head comic book that came out in the 90s. My collection is pretty bizarre, actually. But I love it.
Whoops. New laptop's battery is low. I started this post to explain that I haven't been posting because of a lack of a computer of my own. Now I have one! So long.
This post is garbage. Gotta love stream-of-consciousness.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
I'll try to keep this short.
I recently made the realization that even if I life to the age of 92, I have lived a quarter of my life already. This has been a strange thing to come to grips with and it's changing me, even if I'm not really sure how just yet. Emotionally I've been pretty much all over the place in the last month, observing the turmoil in my friends' lives and the rest of the world as if from afar. Everything I say when I talk to people feels hollow these days. Maybe it is. Suddenly I feel as if a new perspective on life has been thrust upon me when I wasn't looking, and the enormity of it all, the millions of choices that we can make, is just bearing down on me.
And yet, I am still me. I still play music. I've started painting a lot lately too. I still talk to my friends, I still drink beer, and I still laugh. My heart still falls for the same old tricks. But some parts of me, I simply don't recognize.
It's hard to explain what's going on in my head. I would love to have someone here that I could talk to about all this, instead of making it a three paragraph stoned monologue on the Internet.
And yet, I am still me. I still play music. I've started painting a lot lately too. I still talk to my friends, I still drink beer, and I still laugh. My heart still falls for the same old tricks. But some parts of me, I simply don't recognize.
It's hard to explain what's going on in my head. I would love to have someone here that I could talk to about all this, instead of making it a three paragraph stoned monologue on the Internet.
Monday, December 12, 2011
Four months.
That's how long I've been an official Indiana resident. That's how long I have been friendless, a budding alcoholic, focusing on assorted art forms to try and relieve the stress, loneliness and alienation I've been dealing with for the past 120 days or so. It's been rough, I won't lie. Shit, why would I lie, on my own blog that nobody even reads?
<explosion>
My best friend is pregnant to a guy she barely knows who is twice her age. My other best friend's girlfriend cheated on him and, it turns out is kind of a whore, which is an extra blow because I thought she was really such a great person and it turns out she's just another fuckin tramp. All the rest of my friends are in various states of upheaval and I'm sitting alone, 400 miles away. I would give anything to be there in the midst of all their misery instead of here in this shitty patchwork house that is constantly freezing. Hell, I would give anything to just be near a sympathetic ear that wasn't family or a coworker. I hate my job. Well, that's not accurate. I don't hate my job. I just don't think I'm cut out for it. I've gained 30 pounds since moving here. I never do anything anymore except work and drink. I don't even really play guitar very much, except in moments of insomnia where I will pick up my acoustic and strum a few chords and melodies before trying to sleep again. I'm trapped in this house with one functional shower that you have to walk through my parents room to get to. There are boxes fucking everywhere, even four months after moving. The US government seems to be turning into a police state, and instead of spending my last days of freedom doing what I actually want to do, I'm working a job that I don't believe I'll ever fully understand, or that I even care to ever fully understand, friendless and melancholy. It feels like the end of the world is bearing down on my shoulders and I would fucking give ANYTHING to just have someone to hold, to make love to, to be passionate with and forget the sorry state of affairs that's crumbling around me. I seem to be watching everything I've known for so long just fall apart in front of my eyes. And I hate it.
</explosion>
<explosion>
My best friend is pregnant to a guy she barely knows who is twice her age. My other best friend's girlfriend cheated on him and, it turns out is kind of a whore, which is an extra blow because I thought she was really such a great person and it turns out she's just another fuckin tramp. All the rest of my friends are in various states of upheaval and I'm sitting alone, 400 miles away. I would give anything to be there in the midst of all their misery instead of here in this shitty patchwork house that is constantly freezing. Hell, I would give anything to just be near a sympathetic ear that wasn't family or a coworker. I hate my job. Well, that's not accurate. I don't hate my job. I just don't think I'm cut out for it. I've gained 30 pounds since moving here. I never do anything anymore except work and drink. I don't even really play guitar very much, except in moments of insomnia where I will pick up my acoustic and strum a few chords and melodies before trying to sleep again. I'm trapped in this house with one functional shower that you have to walk through my parents room to get to. There are boxes fucking everywhere, even four months after moving. The US government seems to be turning into a police state, and instead of spending my last days of freedom doing what I actually want to do, I'm working a job that I don't believe I'll ever fully understand, or that I even care to ever fully understand, friendless and melancholy. It feels like the end of the world is bearing down on my shoulders and I would fucking give ANYTHING to just have someone to hold, to make love to, to be passionate with and forget the sorry state of affairs that's crumbling around me. I seem to be watching everything I've known for so long just fall apart in front of my eyes. And I hate it.
</explosion>
Thursday, October 6, 2011
A Depressing Post Script:
So here's the most upsetting thing that my drunk ass mind can come up with right now:
So I hate hot dogs, usually. They disgust me. But right now, my alcohol addled brain is fucking FOCUSED on hot dogs like you wouldn't believe. We did have a pack in the fridge. Unopened and everything. But I just looked for them, mouth already watering in anticipation of that Ball Park goodness... and nothing. No hot dogs. I'm so pissed. Instead I have to settle for a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch.
So I hate hot dogs, usually. They disgust me. But right now, my alcohol addled brain is fucking FOCUSED on hot dogs like you wouldn't believe. We did have a pack in the fridge. Unopened and everything. But I just looked for them, mouth already watering in anticipation of that Ball Park goodness... and nothing. No hot dogs. I'm so pissed. Instead I have to settle for a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch.
Adam's Cheap-ass Booze Revue, Whiskey edition.
Welcome to another installment of Adam's Cheap-Ass Booze Revue. In our previous episodes, you may remember I sampled Boxer lager, a beer that costs $13.99 for 36 cans, or to put that in perspective, less than 40 cents per 12 ounces, including the aluminum to make the can said 12 ounces comes in. Tonight, I indulge in Beam's Eight Star Kentucky Whiskey- A Blend. Quoted straight from the label. Blended and bottled by the Clear Spring Distilling Co., this 80 proof whiskey is $4.99 for a 375 ml bottle. As always, I have my trusty emergency vomit expulsion repository system nearby(or EVER system for short), as well as a six pack of Rolling Rock beer for chasing purposes. Due to the relatively tasteless nature of Rolling Rock coupled with its low 4.6% alcohol content insures that my observations on the Beam's whiskey shall remain mostly untainted.
At this moment, is it 9:42 PM, EST. I have already committed my first mistake in smelling the whiskey after cracking the bottle open. It made my stomach turn a little bit. But I must forge onward. Tonight I get drunk FOR SCIENCE!
9:45 PM: My trusty shot glass is washed, shot is poured... It is time.
9:46 PM: All of the hairs on my arms are standing straight up. Surprisingly, the first shot was pretty decent. Kind of like Southern Comfort, if it was strained through the nicest pair of underwear from the Salvation Army donation bin. Just a little off. Which is a shame. I already had some jokes lined up along the lines of "Eight stars? Out of what? Forty? And this is their A Blend? Jesus, I'd hate to try their B blend." I suppose I shouldn't be upset that I just found a tolerable whiskey for $5 a bottle, but god dammit, I thought that was funny. See, it's funny because eight stars out of forty reduces to one out of five.
9:50 PM: Realize that this is the most complex math you will be able to do for the rest of the night.
Shot count: 1.
Beer count: 1.
Smoke breaks: 0
Piss breaks: 0
In the interest of safety, I am only going to do a shot every half an hour until I am sufficiently drunk. In that meantime, I will do my best to be entertaining. Here is a short little story:
When I was a young lad of 14 years, I had some seriously obnoxious hair. It was at least down to my nipples when I pulled it straight, but as I rarely found reason to shower and never ever found reason to brush my hair, through some kind of genetic tragedy and/or dark wizardry, my hair puffed out into this truly spectacular afro. Being a portly young chap with glasses and massively curly dark hair, I bore more than a passing resemblance to Ozzy Osbourne's son Jack. This was something I could accept. "Sure," I reasoned. "I look like a D-list reality TV celebrity. What's so wrong with that?"
Soon I found that it was a curse. Everywhere I went, unevolved knuckle-draggers would look at me and say "HAY! Yew! Has en-e-won ever told yew that yew look just laike that Jack Osbourne feller?"
At first, I simply laughed and said, "Well, yeah, a couple people have mentioned it." and I went about my day. But it just kept happening. Each time I heard that distinctive "HAY!" my hands would ball into fists. My jaws would clamp shut. Grinding my teeth, I turned to face the dipshit accosting me, just dying to tell me how much I resemble Jack Osbourne.
One fine summer day, I was walking to the park, minding my own business. A lady was outside her house, doing some gardening or some other bullshit task. She didn't notice me walking down her street until I was already past her house. Then I hear it.
"HAY!"
"Oh no. Oh fuck no. Not again, you fucking cunt. Not today." I thought. I dug my fingernails into my palms, suppressed the urge to scream, and turned to face her.
"What?"
"Did en-e-won ever tell yew that yew look laike Jack Osbourne?"
I bit down on my tongue so hard that I thought I was going to cut it in half with my front teeth. Then finally, I thought, "You know what? Fuck this." And I said to her:
"Why, no, nobody has ever made that observation before. Has anyone ever told you that you look like Cindy Crawford?"
The woman looked startled and flattered. "Why no, no-one never did say that!"
I glanced back at her. For a moment, I almost had a change of heart.
Almost.
"That's because you don't."
I walked away with a gigantic grin on my face. I still hope that ruined that bitch's day.
10:15 PM: Pouring shot number two. There is a moment of hesitation. I quickly squash this impulse. Real men do not think of consequences!
10:20 PM: I no longer think that this booze is decent. There is a certain bite to it that was not present in the first shot. I threw the shot into my mouth, and my throat instantly closed up. My body was clearly saying "Go fuck yourself, you cheap ass goddamn alcoholic. You're not putting that into me." Well, I showed you, didn't I body? That's right. You'll process this swill and YOU'LL LIKE IT!
Shot count: 2
Beer count: 1
Smoke breaks: 1
Piss breaks: 0
Lately I have been watching a lot of stand up comedy. The problem with me and every art medium ever is that once I decide I like something, I want to do it myself. So naturally, I now want to be a stand up comedian. Unfortunately, I'm not all that funny. The only joke I have for a potential stand up routine is:
Ever meet any Atheists named Christian?
Yep. That's the extent of my performance. Guess I better stick to writing awful songs.
Oh fuck me. I have to take another shot of whiskey in like, four minutes. Fuck me runnin'.
10:45 PM: I'm really not looking forward to this.
10:47 PM: Coughing, gagging, hating myself a little... But that's another one down the hatch. And that one tasted like Soco even more than the first. Maybe I'm past that threshold of giving a shit about the quality of my alcohol.
Shot count: 3
Beer count: 2
Smoke breaks: 1
Piss breaks: 1
So. I'm definitely getting tipsy. I'm about a quarter of the way down this whiskey bottle, and I am 100% sure that I can't, or at the very least should not, finish it. So here's the deal. I'm gonna hang out here for one more shot, then I'm going to bed. I... was gonna say that Ilve got shit to do tomorrow, but that's not true, sp what can I say? an;lspo O an done using the backspace button to give you a more accurate idea of what it looks like when a semi drunk kkid uses a keyboard in the dark. I am swaeting a lot. I want to eat EVERYTHING IN THE HOUSE. I don;t know. I think I;m gonna go eat chips til I have to tak e another shot.
Really, I'm not that drunk. It's just late and I'm sick of sitting in front of this screen.
11:15 PM: Well fuck. It's that time again, huh? Well, here we go...
11:17 PM: Jesus fuck. That was awful. Almost had to employ the EVER system right there.
Shot count: 4
Beer count: 3
Smoke breaks: 1
Piss breaks: 2
Conclusions: It's 40% alcohol for $4.99. What do you expect, fucking Chivas Regal? It'll get you nice and drunk, but it'll also go down a lot easier if you murder a few hundred thousand of your taste buds first. I am good and drunk, now I'm gonna go smoke a cigarette, work on finishing my six pack, and pass out. Some other desperate night, I'll bust out the other half of this bottle of Beam's Eight Star Whiskey and get nice and sloshed.
Adam's Cheap-Ass Booze Revue Rating: Just for the fuck of it, 8/10 stars.
That concludes another episode of Adam's Cheap-Ass Booze Revue. We sincerely hope you enjoyed our program and tune in next week when we show you how $6-a-bottle champagne can make an ordinary night...extraordinary. Goodnight, all you classy tightwads.
At this moment, is it 9:42 PM, EST. I have already committed my first mistake in smelling the whiskey after cracking the bottle open. It made my stomach turn a little bit. But I must forge onward. Tonight I get drunk FOR SCIENCE!
9:45 PM: My trusty shot glass is washed, shot is poured... It is time.
9:46 PM: All of the hairs on my arms are standing straight up. Surprisingly, the first shot was pretty decent. Kind of like Southern Comfort, if it was strained through the nicest pair of underwear from the Salvation Army donation bin. Just a little off. Which is a shame. I already had some jokes lined up along the lines of "Eight stars? Out of what? Forty? And this is their A Blend? Jesus, I'd hate to try their B blend." I suppose I shouldn't be upset that I just found a tolerable whiskey for $5 a bottle, but god dammit, I thought that was funny. See, it's funny because eight stars out of forty reduces to one out of five.
9:50 PM: Realize that this is the most complex math you will be able to do for the rest of the night.
Shot count: 1.
Beer count: 1.
Smoke breaks: 0
Piss breaks: 0
In the interest of safety, I am only going to do a shot every half an hour until I am sufficiently drunk. In that meantime, I will do my best to be entertaining. Here is a short little story:
When I was a young lad of 14 years, I had some seriously obnoxious hair. It was at least down to my nipples when I pulled it straight, but as I rarely found reason to shower and never ever found reason to brush my hair, through some kind of genetic tragedy and/or dark wizardry, my hair puffed out into this truly spectacular afro. Being a portly young chap with glasses and massively curly dark hair, I bore more than a passing resemblance to Ozzy Osbourne's son Jack. This was something I could accept. "Sure," I reasoned. "I look like a D-list reality TV celebrity. What's so wrong with that?"
Soon I found that it was a curse. Everywhere I went, unevolved knuckle-draggers would look at me and say "HAY! Yew! Has en-e-won ever told yew that yew look just laike that Jack Osbourne feller?"
At first, I simply laughed and said, "Well, yeah, a couple people have mentioned it." and I went about my day. But it just kept happening. Each time I heard that distinctive "HAY!" my hands would ball into fists. My jaws would clamp shut. Grinding my teeth, I turned to face the dipshit accosting me, just dying to tell me how much I resemble Jack Osbourne.
One fine summer day, I was walking to the park, minding my own business. A lady was outside her house, doing some gardening or some other bullshit task. She didn't notice me walking down her street until I was already past her house. Then I hear it.
"HAY!"
"Oh no. Oh fuck no. Not again, you fucking cunt. Not today." I thought. I dug my fingernails into my palms, suppressed the urge to scream, and turned to face her.
"What?"
"Did en-e-won ever tell yew that yew look laike Jack Osbourne?"
I bit down on my tongue so hard that I thought I was going to cut it in half with my front teeth. Then finally, I thought, "You know what? Fuck this." And I said to her:
"Why, no, nobody has ever made that observation before. Has anyone ever told you that you look like Cindy Crawford?"
The woman looked startled and flattered. "Why no, no-one never did say that!"
I glanced back at her. For a moment, I almost had a change of heart.
Almost.
"That's because you don't."
I walked away with a gigantic grin on my face. I still hope that ruined that bitch's day.
10:15 PM: Pouring shot number two. There is a moment of hesitation. I quickly squash this impulse. Real men do not think of consequences!
10:20 PM: I no longer think that this booze is decent. There is a certain bite to it that was not present in the first shot. I threw the shot into my mouth, and my throat instantly closed up. My body was clearly saying "Go fuck yourself, you cheap ass goddamn alcoholic. You're not putting that into me." Well, I showed you, didn't I body? That's right. You'll process this swill and YOU'LL LIKE IT!
Shot count: 2
Beer count: 1
Smoke breaks: 1
Piss breaks: 0
Lately I have been watching a lot of stand up comedy. The problem with me and every art medium ever is that once I decide I like something, I want to do it myself. So naturally, I now want to be a stand up comedian. Unfortunately, I'm not all that funny. The only joke I have for a potential stand up routine is:
Ever meet any Atheists named Christian?
Yep. That's the extent of my performance. Guess I better stick to writing awful songs.
Oh fuck me. I have to take another shot of whiskey in like, four minutes. Fuck me runnin'.
10:45 PM: I'm really not looking forward to this.
10:47 PM: Coughing, gagging, hating myself a little... But that's another one down the hatch. And that one tasted like Soco even more than the first. Maybe I'm past that threshold of giving a shit about the quality of my alcohol.
Shot count: 3
Beer count: 2
Smoke breaks: 1
Piss breaks: 1
So. I'm definitely getting tipsy. I'm about a quarter of the way down this whiskey bottle, and I am 100% sure that I can't, or at the very least should not, finish it. So here's the deal. I'm gonna hang out here for one more shot, then I'm going to bed. I... was gonna say that Ilve got shit to do tomorrow, but that's not true, sp what can I say? an;lspo O an done using the backspace button to give you a more accurate idea of what it looks like when a semi drunk kkid uses a keyboard in the dark. I am swaeting a lot. I want to eat EVERYTHING IN THE HOUSE. I don;t know. I think I;m gonna go eat chips til I have to tak e another shot.
Really, I'm not that drunk. It's just late and I'm sick of sitting in front of this screen.
11:15 PM: Well fuck. It's that time again, huh? Well, here we go...
11:17 PM: Jesus fuck. That was awful. Almost had to employ the EVER system right there.
Shot count: 4
Beer count: 3
Smoke breaks: 1
Piss breaks: 2
Conclusions: It's 40% alcohol for $4.99. What do you expect, fucking Chivas Regal? It'll get you nice and drunk, but it'll also go down a lot easier if you murder a few hundred thousand of your taste buds first. I am good and drunk, now I'm gonna go smoke a cigarette, work on finishing my six pack, and pass out. Some other desperate night, I'll bust out the other half of this bottle of Beam's Eight Star Whiskey and get nice and sloshed.
Adam's Cheap-Ass Booze Revue Rating: Just for the fuck of it, 8/10 stars.
That concludes another episode of Adam's Cheap-Ass Booze Revue. We sincerely hope you enjoyed our program and tune in next week when we show you how $6-a-bottle champagne can make an ordinary night...extraordinary. Goodnight, all you classy tightwads.
Monday, October 3, 2011
My second follower on Twitter is a porn bot, and other (semi) related stories.
So Twitter is turning out to be pretty alright. It's kinda like Facebook for people with short attention spans. I think one of the things I love about it is that practically nobody even knows I have one, leaving me the freedom to throw every single asinine thought that passes through my head onto the internet for the enjoyment of strangers. Much to my surprise, a day or two after setting up my account, I got myself a follower in the form of Brian Russell, who makes a webcomic called The Underfold. Just now, I got a second follower. The title should tell the rest of that story for me.
One of my very favorite things about having a blog is seeing what kind of searches bring people in. Not that I draw all that many people in or anything. Some people find my blog using mundane keywords like "graffiti on bridge" or "ebola skin", but my favorite, up until very recently, was some English person googling "tales of the boner" and somehow ending up here. But this week, I got a new favorite. Someone from India found my blog by typing "responsible fucking" into Google and hitting search. I'm surprised nobody has found this site by typing "lesbian" into a search engine. Maybe they've tried and got distracted by all the porn.
In other news, I'm still working on writing the songs for a new album. So far, I have 6 finished, 2 more waiting for that final spark of inspiration that will finalize them, and one that I want to write, though I have no music or words so let's not count that one for now. Titles are as follows:
Infidelity
When it Rains
In Your Car (Tuesday Night Rainstorm)
Menthol Memories
Another Bottle
Artificial Euphoria
Incomplete:
Burning Leaves
Song for Syd
I might just call it at that, release an EP instead of a proper album. I'm debating whether or not to do a cover on this one. If I do, I'm thinking either Octopus by Syd Barrett, Sister Golden Hair by America, or My Favourite Chords by The Weakerthans. We'll see what happens.
One of my very favorite things about having a blog is seeing what kind of searches bring people in. Not that I draw all that many people in or anything. Some people find my blog using mundane keywords like "graffiti on bridge" or "ebola skin", but my favorite, up until very recently, was some English person googling "tales of the boner" and somehow ending up here. But this week, I got a new favorite. Someone from India found my blog by typing "responsible fucking" into Google and hitting search. I'm surprised nobody has found this site by typing "lesbian" into a search engine. Maybe they've tried and got distracted by all the porn.
In other news, I'm still working on writing the songs for a new album. So far, I have 6 finished, 2 more waiting for that final spark of inspiration that will finalize them, and one that I want to write, though I have no music or words so let's not count that one for now. Titles are as follows:
Infidelity
When it Rains
In Your Car (Tuesday Night Rainstorm)
Menthol Memories
Another Bottle
Artificial Euphoria
Incomplete:
Burning Leaves
Song for Syd
I might just call it at that, release an EP instead of a proper album. I'm debating whether or not to do a cover on this one. If I do, I'm thinking either Octopus by Syd Barrett, Sister Golden Hair by America, or My Favourite Chords by The Weakerthans. We'll see what happens.
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