In a Wobble Round the Sun

2006-09-07T00:37:00.000-07:00

I suck at relationships, and relationships suck at me. Like a leech.

On Barometric Pressure

2006-08-29T00:07:00.000-07:00

It's late. I've had a long day. I have to be up in a few hours to drive to Michigan. I can't sleep. That, or I don't want to. I dunno.

Today I'm having one of my many typical existential crises which pop up from time to time like a herpes outbreak. God damn. A friend of mine blames my mood swings on barometric pressure; she says that on days when the barometric pressure is higher, peoples' brains start to tweak. All I know is that I've been on fucking edge all day. There was this inbred family of buck-tooth orangutan-looking people in front of me in line at Barnes and Noble this afternoon who spent almost $200 on Dungeons and Dragons books. Harmless, yes, and completely inconsequential to me, but these people irked me so much, I kind of seriously wanted to kill them. Violently. Involving much bloodshed. People such as this shouldn't be allowed to live. And it wasn't just the affinity for Dungeons and Dragons, it was the fact that they couldn't string together a complete sentence if there was a loaded cannon pointed at their face, it was the fact that they obviously had not bathed in probably years, it was the fact that they wore Looney Toons shirts that sucked rod even when they were popular in the mid-90's. And trucker hats. Oh, the trucker hats. Ashton Kutcher couldn't even save them.

And then I kind of realized that, in a really depressingly sick kind of way, I might be a little jealous of those hick butt munchers. Jealous because, clearly, they don't take the time out of their day to think about a single one of the things that causes me to freak out on a daily basis. They are totally cool with being ignorant, stupid, Dungeons and Dragons playing hicks who reek to high hell like bad Indian cooking, whereas I don't think I'll ever be content with anything. I overthink everything to the point where I want to shoot staples into my head. Lucky me.

Most days I curse the fact that I was born as intelligent as I was, and I wish that I could be content to let my will to live get raped by some shitty corporate desk job with a decent salary. That would be so much easier than riding the see-saw I'm on. I don't think there's a place for intelligent people on this planet anymore, honestly; we are devolving back into blathering ape mongoloids in suits and fast cars.

I'm not cut out for this shit. What utter fucking nonsense.

Flying Spaghetti Monsters

2006-08-22T00:45:00.000-07:00

Please check this website out immediately. Seriously.

www.flyingspaghettimonster.com

I want to be this guy's new best friend. Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the FSM.

On Marriage

2006-08-20T21:12:00.000-07:00

This is for Mel. She told me to start writing again.

So, it's been a while--months--since I've posted any garbled ramblings on this site. Weird. I go on sporadic kicks with this thing.

I went to a wedding this weekend in Minneapolis. Well, outside Minneapolis. Actually, way outside of Minneapolis. We were deep in the grips of Suburbia, in a land where the Strip Mall reigns supreme above all else, and there wasn't a single bar to be found. Seriously. No bars. Lots of churches, though. There was a heavy influence of the Lord in all things. I felt as though I was back home in Wheaton (read: uncomfortable).

It trips me out that people my age, friends of mine, are getting married. Here I am, trying to hold on desperately to the last shards of my tattered childhood remnants, and everyone around me seems intent on growing up, buying houses, having children of their own, etc. I have issues. Clearly. But I like my issues.

Anyhow, the wedding was fun. Of course. Weddings are always fun. Especially when there's an open bar. The Blonde One had other obligations, so I brought my buddy with as a wingman. We got ridiculously intoxicated on enough wine to fill the Grand Canyon half way, danced with anyone nearby who was in possession of breasts, ran a pretty standard burn, held numerous awkward conversations with old college acquaintances I haven't seen in years, and slept in my car. Don't ask. Actually, do ask. It's a hilarious story of missed opportunity.

I do have to add that Scott and Jenny (the bride and groom) are perfect for each other, and I'm happy for them. It was nice to sit in the ceremony and know that the two of them're supposed to be together. The last wedding I went to, we were taking bets at the reception on how long it'd take for the marriage to completely deteriorate. I gave it 14 months. Which is generous.

On Relating

2006-03-05T21:57:00.000-08:00

'Nuff said.

On Crazy Old Apes

2006-02-27T19:33:00.000-08:00

Dear Life,

You sure are weird sometimes.

Yours,

Peter

Sometimes I get the feeling that this whole tripped out existence of ours is just some elaborate joke, and that The Big Man Upstairs resembles more closely this crazy grinning simian rather than some old codger with flowing robes and a sage white beard. It certainly makes more sense. Perhaps God isn't so omniscient after all. Maybe he's just some crazy, ancient gorilla hurling his crusty poop at all of humanity and pounding his chest in gleeful satisfaction when it splats upon its mark. What if we're all just running around our whole lives, dodging the inevitable smack of monkey feces before it hits us in the forehead? I spend so much of my time sorting through the rubbish of the world in order to attain some sort of meaning and purpose for myself, but the longer I sift through all the shit, the more frustrated and further away from any answer I get. Perhaps that's the point.

These are strange days.

P.S. I am fully aware that in my last entry, I used the word "yolked" when I meant to say "yoked." That was embarrasing. But I'm too lazy to edit it. My apologies.

On Passing Rites, Among Other Things

2006-02-21T21:43:00.000-08:00

Um, so I bought a car yesterday. Yeah. Seriously. A new car. Holy shit. How adult. How uncharacteristic of me. How cool. Wow.

And so, another of the fabled Rites of Passage has yanked me by the ear into an all new realm of existence I never thought I'd actually arrive at. Because buying cars is something grown-ups are supposed to do. Not me. I guess I've always held that childish mentality that I'd never actually get old enough to purchase a car or a house. It's a weird feeling when you wake up on that one particular morning with not only that glimmer of desire to make such an influential purchase, but the realization that you actually have the means to do so as well. What a trip. Responsibility hangs over my head in a massive, honeyed orb with anxieties buzzing around it like flesh-eating bumble bees: was this a good decision?, am I ready for such a drastic shift of my finances in the direction of endless monthly payments?, what the fuck am I doing?, etc.

But you know what? I deserve this. Rarely do I do anything really and truly nice for myself that isn't indirectly destructive, and this is a good start. Sure, I feel as though I could vomit gloriously at the thought of the burden I've yolked myself to for the next three years, but ultimately, I think this is going to liberate me in more ways than I even know. Hopefully.

I refuse to ever grow up, but sometimes it's fun to dabble in adulthood.

Shameless Self-Promoting

2006-02-05T22:32:00.000-08:00

Never the Sinner opens this Friday... Click on the link below for more information.

www.mercuryplayerstheatre.com

A Little Change of Perspective...

2006-01-26T12:03:00.000-08:00

Wanna hear something intense? I caught my boss crying. Like, crying. In his office. And I'm not sure how to deal with this.

For those of you who don't know, I don't like my boss. In fact, I pretty much despise him for all intensive purposes, as he encompasses in full each and every aspect of dufusdome imaginable. His complete lack of common sense and disregard for his employees is just the tip of the proverbial iceberg, as it were, and shit has swirled down the toilet in a big way since he took over the GM position a few months ago following a dastardly coup by the corporate higher-ups to remove our previous general manager. People are not happy. Many have quit. The foundation is crumbling beneath us. The guy used to be a used-car salesman, for chrissake, and he runs the restaurant like he's trying to move our food like BMW's, which, to say the fucking least, isn't what our patrons are looking for when they come to a casual Irish place for dinner. So it is.

And then I catch him crying. Not like sobbing or anything, but crying. Red faced, teary eyed crying. I have no idea as to whether this episode was brought on by some work-related frustration, or perhaps by something in his personal life, but either way, all my hatred for this jerk was temporarily pacified. I felt immediate remorse for all the shit I'd given him, for all the second-guessing, for all the times I blatantly disregarded what he told me to do because it sounded (and probably was) asinine, for all the times I went over his head to keep him as far out of the loop as I was able, etc. The list could go on. Had I been too hard on him? I don't know. Probably. But seeing him crying, for whatever reason, suddenly morphed this demon-boss before my eyes from a mortal enemy to a person who actually feels feelings. Weird. What a one-eighty.

I'm not sure how to respond to this, I guess. There's something about seeing a male superior of mine in such a vulnerable state that gets my conscience whirling out of control in a flurry of guilt. I've decided to give him the benefit of the doubt; he is a person after all. But him being a person doesn't excuse him from being a douche cake. I still don't think I like him, but at least this experience provides me with the perspective necessary to compromise with him and learn to cope.

I'm not heartless, after all. Just stubborn.

2006-01-25T22:24:00.000-08:00

Best Word Combination of the Day:
"Vehicular decapitation" -- courtesy of Martin McDonagh's The Pillowman

Quote of the Day:

"I want to be shot in the back of the head by a jealous husband." -- Tom Mulligan, on how he wants to go

2006-01-24T23:13:00.000-08:00

Quote of the Day:
"There was beer, I drank it, and now I'm drunk. Very drunk." -- Tom, on a simple progression of events

On Being A Noisy Neighbor...

2006-01-19T20:31:00.000-08:00

Whoa. The guy who lives in the apartment next to me's currently performing some sort of mystic-sounding mantra to Jebus knows what, which I am able to hear quite clearly through the thin film of a wall that separates our respective abodes. Holy man, is this guy nuts. And I don't even really know him. What I do know is that I don't like him because he's a Wall Pounder. He is a Pounder of Walls, if you will. Any time I turn on my stereo, I can count on him banging our poor shared wall with clenched fists in a manner that indicates to me that he is both unsound of mind and clearly wants me dead. One: I play nothing but the sweetest of music ever written (and yes, that includes my Meat Loaf albums goddamn it), and two: I'm not trying to be a dick. I'm always very conscious of how loud my "tune's're rockin'," as it were, because I'm aware of how poorly insulated the wall is. But, come on. Am I being unreasonable? I don't think so, but then again, I'm stubborn.

I can only imagine who or what this loon is attempting to conjure up in there. The way I see it, it could be anything from some demonic fairy-being-thing sent to destroy me and/or my entire CD collection, or perhaps it's the spirit of one of the lead singers of one of the ultra-lame emo bands I hear him listening to, come to torture me for eternity with weepy ballads about stubbing your toe or spilling some milk. Either way, I suppose I can rest easy knowing that I at least don't "hum-uh-nuh-hum-uh-nuh" to myself in some monk-like tone.

"What an idiot show I live in," as old Cosmo would say. Between the bad emo and the chanting in Apt. 301 and the continuing domestic disturbances in 305, I'm just not sure what to do. Lock myself in, and pray I don't die, I guess... This building did yield something positivly in my favor, however, because I finally talked Lindsay from downstairs into coming up for a beer the other night. She's Russian. Hubba.

The People That You Meet Each Day:

Meet Jonathan R. He's a classic case of that guy that got the shit kicked out of him a whole bunch in high school turned rich asshole. Dressed to the nines in a nice suit and trendy glasses (which were unable to distract from the cowlick on the back of his head that's probably been there since the mid-eighties), this one time small fry has much to prove, which means very little general courtesey. And don't even think about a tip. Hey Jonathan, we'll talk once you finally get laid, buddy. Face!

Quote of the Day:

"I just need some fucking space!" -- woman next door, heard through the wall and mid-verbal brawl with her boyfriend, on the irony of making such requests while living in an efficiency

Big Lame Ern Bangs Out A Seagull

2006-01-09T20:42:00.000-08:00

So, I struck up a conversation today at work with this guy named Ernest who is a nature conservationist. He had a PhD., in fact, for conserving nature. Good for him. I'll be honest, old Ern wasn't the most enthralling of people, which was unfortunate because he'd been to all sorts of cool places all over this little pebble of earth and water we live upon, the names of most of which require one's tongue to perform backflips in order to pronounce them. And boy could he talk. And talk. And talk. What was completely ridiculous, though, was that this weenie had absolutely nothing to say. Never would I have imagined that listening to someone recount his adventures foraging through Sri Lanka with nothing but a backpack and a canteen would have been more boring than the task of rotating the bottles in our beer cooler. But alas. I mean, at least embellish a little, and tell me about how you had to defend yourself and the hot, buxom blonde accompanying you from mammoth spiders or that you were forced to use your sweet conservation skills to the max against evil, snaggle-toothed cannibals in the furthest reaches of the dark jungle.

"What did you do your doctoral thesis on?" I finally ask, deciding I'll feed this guy's ego a little bit in a half-assed attempt to work for the big tip I knew I probably wouldn't receive. Self-absorbed people don't tip, this is something you learn quick.

After a brief pause, he says casually and with a sliver of condescension, "Herring gulls. Well, specifically the reproductive cycle of the common seagull."

Wow. How atrociously unclimactic. I let this sit for a moment, and then I began to think of the colossal amounts of time this guy must have spent on studying how gulls lay eggs and do the bang-bang in order to write a doctoral thesis. And then I began to think about how big Ern is an expert on the reproductive cycle of seagulls, which I found to be thoroughly depressing. I mean, by this logic, I could get my PhD. by being an expert on the bowel movements of the two-toed sloth. It just seems silly to me, I guess, to spend all that time and energy on an education, only to become an authority on sea gulls. No wonder he was a lame-o: he'd been all over the world, but hadn't actually done anything except watch birds doing it. What a waste. Idiot.

On Being Resolved...

2006-01-04T15:29:00.000-08:00

Well, well, well. It's been a while, has it not? And here we are once more, meeting along the shoulder of the information super highway, on our way to Lord knows where. It's good to be back.

I brought up the topic of New Year's resolutions the other day during a car ride with one of my friends in an effort to coax some sort of stimulating interaction out of the void of uncomfortable silence that had developed around us in the rather restrained confines of the vehicle. When I asked said friend whether she had indeed resolved to make any changes or improvements upon the foundation of which her life was built, she responded initially that she had not thought about it. I however, knew that I would not get off that easily, for this particular friend of my is quite verbose in regards to matters such as these. Besides, I had asked the question. I knew what I was getting myself into. Following a brief pause and the segue, "Well, I guess I could...," I was pelted with the inevitable bombardment of tentative goals and proposed achievements for the fetus that will eventually grow into 2006 for the better part of the remaining car ride.

I listened patiently as my companion wrapped up her rather lengthy list of things she could do better, or stuff that she shouldn't worry so much about, and then, as is the general etiquette for conversations such as this, I received what I like to refer to as, "The Pass Back" or the "How About You?"

"I don't do resolutions," answered simply. "I think they're silly."

"What are you, some kind of New Year's Scrooge?" the reply.

"No, I like getting ridiculously drunk and staying up really late as much as the next guy" my retort, "but New Year's resolutions are pretty much like shitty party favors, they're in the garbage can as soon as the party's over. What's the point of putting yourself through all that stress and temporary self loathing when you know you're just gonna fuck it up in a couple of days anyhow?"

OK, so that's not exactly how things were said during our little chat, but you can catch my drift. Anyhow, the long and short of it is that I have since reconsidered my previous, surly stance on not making any resolutions this year in favor for making one, and that is to rekindle this sorry sac of a blog into the flicker of a campfire it once was. If for nothing else, for the sake of my own mental preservation.

Sorry suckers, I'm back. For better or worse. See you in Oz...

Cinematic Quote of the Day:

"Cuz they're gay." -- Bert in Cabin Fever, on why it's OK to shoot at squirrels

Back Out of the Woods

2005-07-01T00:15:00.000-07:00

Dearest all,

It's been a long while since anything new or of importance has been posted on this site, for various reasons, but here goes a new start of sorts. Or something. If anyone still reads this anymore. Take it as you will...

Peace has settled upon me like a feather floating on a calm pond, for whatever reason, and it is a much welcomed change. My perspectives, ever changing and malleable, have shifted with the weather perhaps, but either way, I feel as though the slate is clean. Fuck the dust caught in the unreachable crevices of the chalk board, for becoming preoccupied with their unattainable cleanliness provokes insanity and illwill. That, or an insatiable appetite for a better eraser.

Existence is what you make of it, this is what I have concluded. If you sing, then sing, and the grass is always greener on the other side. Our reality is man-made, we were not born with this ridiculous sense of boundaries, and it is no one but ourselves that prevent each other's happiness. It is important not to flush our pipe dreams as we would a dead goldfish or pet turtle, but rather, redirect them to irrigate the fields of opportunity.

Things that've tripped me out recently:

Our reality is merely a perception of what has already occurred.
The words "please" and "thank you" are words that Coasties use, but don't necessarily know the meaning of.
Why, oh why my cat is suddenly pissing on the couch.
What the hell that fucking yeti is doing in the corner of my living room.

Quote of the Day: "It kind of tastes like teste satchel" -- Jordan, on flavor profiling and sweet references to Borat on The Ali G Show

...

2005-06-01T00:35:00.000-07:00

Cosmo Quote of the Day:

"Better keep your damn pants on, hear me you guys?" -- Cosmo, on population control

Cosmo, for those of you who don't know, is this schizophrenic guy that frequents Hawk's regularly. He's out of his mind. But quite entertaining. Think Frankenstein, only skinny as a rail, a chain smoker who never has cigarettes, hair that hasn't been washed in decades, the sweetest wardrobe you've ever laid eyes on, and bat-fricking crazy. That's Cos. Wow.

Bonus Quote of the Day:

"Acid's crazy, man. This one time, I actually thought I was a glass of water, and all I could think about was not getting spilt" -- Tony, on why he wonders why I don't hang out with him.

Additional Quote of the Day:

"Yeah, a house just fell on her sister, and she's pretty fricking pissed" -- Jammin, on a cranky female bar employee, as well as a sweet Wizard of Oz reference

I know some weird people, man...

Dog Person

2005-05-25T15:29:00.000-07:00

Is it weird to anyone else that my cat rips the eyes off of all her toys? Yeah, she literally rips them off. I noticed it first with Squirrel Toy, and then last night with Furry Mouse Replica Toy. Am I in a bad Stephen King story, or is this a natural feline instinct? I'm a dog person, for crap's sake, from a long line of dog people. Literal dog people. Of the Western Andes region of Ursa Minor. This explains why I'm so agile and rad. My ancestors would've shat themselves raw if they knew that I kept the company of Zoe, not to mention that Swedish/Korean midget dominatrix I've got tied up in the closet.

Bridge Troll

2005-05-20T03:08:00.000-07:00

Work was done, money was made, and it'll all be spent by tomorrow...

There's nothing like finishing up with a long day at two in the a.m., plopping your ass on the couch, cracking a beer, drinking it, and absorbing silence. Well, silence and the beer. Aside from my lunatic cat running frantic laps throughout the apartment, I have no roommate to deal with, no sign at all of upstairs neighbors banging to deal with, no nothing. My stereo is even off, which is rare. It's been a while since I've been able to sit with the windows open at this time of night and appreciate the void of sound that accompanies it, save for the occasional car cruising down East Wash and a few lonely crickets playing their fiddles. Ah, solitude.

A woman actually banged repeatedly on her almost empty pint of beer tonight to get my attention. Which was new. It was like what you do at a wedding to get the bride and groom to smooch, but I didn't get to kiss anyone. And it was loud. I could hear it all the way in the kitchen, which was where I was when this crazy urinal cake of a woman decided I needed to be summoned. I've been snapped at and obnoxiously hailed in all kinds of ways by all kinds of yuppie idiots, but this was a first. Thanks, bridge-troll-looking lady. Thanks a bunch.

Quote of the Day:

"There the fuck is Damon!" -- Rob, on being asked where the fuck was Damon? (OK, this quote was actually from like a week ago, but I just thought of it, and it made me chuckle)

Actual Quote of the Day:

"Ow, the water here is really fricking hard!" -- Taco, on being pelted in the face with an ice cube

Joke of the Day:

A Catholic Priest and a Jewish Rabbi are sitting together on a park bench. After a bit, a little boy comes walking by, and the priest says to the rabbi, "We should screw that kid." To which the rabbi responded, "Out of what?"

Alright, that's enough. Bye.

Ligers. Seriously, you guys. Ligers.

2005-05-18T01:14:00.000-07:00

Um, can we please talk about this? Please? There are actually such things as ligers. I shit you not. Unfortunately, they are not really bred for skills in magic, just for being totally the biggest frickin' cats on the face of the planet. Yesss!

http://www.tigers-animal-actors.com/about/liger/liger.html http://www.sierrasafarizoo.com/animals/liger.htm

Train Tracks

2005-05-18T00:38:00.000-07:00

The night was meant for walking, and I strapped on my shoes. Spent the better part of an hour sitting at the Monona Terrace, feeling insignificant while underneath the expansive starscape and next to the lake. Sometimes it is comforting to feel part of something infinite. Your problems don't seem so big anymore, and it gets to where you almost feel as though you can laugh at their insignificance. I stuck up a conversation with a girl named Sabrina, don't really remember how. "We are all each other's guardian angels," I read somewhere, and I think she was one of mine. I can't get into it. Ask me about it some other time, when my brain is less full of quandaries. We said our goodbyes, and onwards I walked, further into the dark throat of night. I began along the train tracks heading east, but the uneven terrain caused my focus to be on my feet rather than my surroundings, so I opted for the bike path. Good news: large dirt hills are still as cool to climb now as they were when I was eight. It is equally still satisfying to hurl dirt clumps from the top of said hills, and watch with glee as they disintegrate against the walls of nearby buildings. I continued like this for a while, stopping here and there, content to walk, listen to music, and be alone. I felt like I had the world to myself. I was able to sing, and not feel like that crazy dude wandering around town shouting Kanye songs at the top of his cigarette-encrusted lungs. Clear thought ensued, mini-revelations might have been had. I almost stopped for a beer at the Brass Ring, but decided against it, figuring it'd just fuzz up whatever clarity I might've just gained, however brief it might've been. Ah, fleeting tranquility. It was nice while it lasted.

Bogey

2005-05-14T20:36:00.000-07:00

Graduation weekend, and here I am, still not graduated. So it is.

A man walks into the bar today, completely oblivious to the slew of black robes and proud parents, sits down, orders a Bud Lite, and cordially strikes up a conversation with me. It is apparent that this man, who introduces himself affectionately as "Bogey," has been drinking for a considerable period of time prior to meeting me at 11:30 am. It is also apparent that this man's nickname is quite appropriate. A bogey in golf, for those of you who don't know, is one over par, and this guy is way over par. And I'm not talkin' drinks. I immediately think: Charles Bukowski. For four (4) reasons. One, he began sucking back vodka/grapefruits at 6 am (because he's "an early riser") at Bennet's On The Park. Never been to Bennet's? Think greasy eggs and sloppy '70s porn. "Smut and Eggs," as they say. Boy is it a shithole. I may or may not have been to this place one time with my friend "Phil," and the owner of this place may or may not've been wearing this thing on his head that looked like a giant penis, and my other friend "Molly" may or may not have stolen said penis hat in a brilliant heist. Well, she actually just asked to try it on and never gave it back. But you know. The creme de la creme hang out there, let me tell you. While I have admittedly been there once or twice after accidentally staying up all night, the place is full of people who actually get up to go there and start drinking/watch disgusting people have sex on many little television screens. Had I not been half in the bag on these occasions, I'm sure this would be a lot less hilarious and a lot more depressing. The place is a scream, regardless of how you choose to look at it. Two, (now we're back to Bogey), he was reading Portrait of the Artist. He carries it around with him always. This is awesome, I think. I don't know many people who've gotten through that book, besides myself and 1/3 of my senior year English class. And yet this guy loves it! He'd talk your ear off about any other of a million topics also. Why is it that the smartest people always seem to be degenerates? Perhaps it's because they see this stink pile for what it is, and just don't give a shit. But I guess knowledge is a relative thing. Three, the guy is a frickin' mail carrier in Palatine, IL! I mean, come on! Four, he hit on anything with two breasts and teeth. And I mean anything. And he wasn't picky about the teeth thing.

Anyhow, the guy was a pleasure, and he ended up keeping me company all day, providing some much-needed levity from the preposterously-demanding onslaught of Coastie parents that bombarded me with outrageous requests without leaving anything for my troubles. And you wonder where those JAP girls get it from? Holy Christ. I almost stabbed a Jewish mother today, right through her gaudy alligator/rhinocerous-looking broach. Don't ask. There's only so much a man can take before resorting to grisly murder.

Avadis (please check spelling)

2005-05-08T03:00:00.000-07:00

Before I forget:
Quote of the Day:
"Have you ever met Avadis? No? Well, Avadis is three things:

A great pianist.
Really angry.
Always looking for a job."

--Murray

2005-05-05T22:36:00.000-07:00

So, I went to middle school with this kid we called Yoshi. To this day, I'm not sure why we called him Yoshi, other than that time coincided perfectly with the introduction of that little dinosaur lizard thing in "Super Mario World." His real name is Josh. He was the guy who, on fill-in-the-blank tests, would write Jean Claude Van Damme in as the guy who penned the Declaration of Independence. A weird dude, to say the least. We used to get into all sorts of trouble together: stealing candy, sneaking into movies, all that "really rebellious" stuff you do as a kid in your early teens. Anyway, I was thinking about him today, for the first time in years probably, because he was really hyper-active. I mean, really hyper-active. From time to time, he'd have these fits in class where he couldn't stop laughing: it was kind of tragic in a super hilarious way. We'd live for these episodes because he'd disrupt class so badly that all teaching would come to an immediate halt, and we'd have to wait sometimes for half the period for him to calm down. He used to have to carry around this little rectangle thing that looked kind of like something you'd scrub your dirty dishes with, and when he started to freak out, he'd rub this magical object on his arm, thus somehow assuaging the impending incident. It worked like a charm. Usually. One day in eighth grade, he just stopped coming to school--vanished like some giggling banshee. I heard that he was committed, but I prefer to believe that he was devoured by lions.

The point being, I think I need one of those mystical calmer-downer-dish-scrubber strips for my new cat. Have I mentioned that she gets easily over-stimulated? It's a good thing she's a cute little booger, or else she'd be in the lake.

Tone-

2005-05-04T21:41:00.000-07:00

I just got done listening to an obsenely tone-deaf fat guy singing Led Zeppelin covers at Open Mic Night at Cheeseburger in Paradise. It's a lame Jimmy Buffett place right by where I work, brightly adorned in the finest of corporate cheesery (pun most definitely intended) with parrots, palm fronds, pastel colors, and other vaguely Floridian-themed garbage. If there is a Hell, that's where I'd be (should it come to that), paying $7 for weak drinks, and listening to "The Captain" butcher "The Battle of Evermore" like it was a retarded calf.

There's no question in my mind that I'll be back there next week, however, as I have been for the past three weeks now. I'm a glutton for punishment, and "The Captain" is too hilarious to pass up. Really. I mean, he calls himself "The Captain" for crap's sake. And his sole instrument is a mandolin (or quite possibly a ukelele) that looks as though it was bought at the bargain bin at a KB Toys. I wish he was my grandpa. Oh wait, no I don't.

How to Behave Yourself in Public, Tip #305:

Under NO circumstances is it ever, ever acceptable to clip your nails while seated in a restaurant and leave the remnants on the dang table. EVER. Seriously. If you're that bored, you need a new boyfriend. Yeah, I'm talking to you, Blonde Green Shirt Girl.

Black Spotted Lady Bug Toy

2005-05-03T22:51:00.000-07:00

Well, I think stasis has been restored. There was no snow today, which is good considering it's MAY, for frick's sake, and the dust has settled following another go at the Mifflin St. Block Party. This is the first year in five that I have partaken in sobriety on this day of days, instead of diving head first into the revelry. I had to work. But I was OK with that. Despite not being directly involved in the mass destruction of millions of collective brain cells in the compact, four block radius, I did get my fair share of the spillover on State Street while dredged in at Hawk's. I felt as though I was in a bad George Romero remake. The zombie hoard was thick, drunk, and thirsty. Very thirsty. Strong drink was all that could keep them at bay, and I was happy to throw at them whatever spirits I was able. Some were menacing 28 Days Later zombies, while many of the others did the slow shuffle of the early movies. Either way there was vomiting.

Needless to say, I then had no choice to become a blathering idiot myself, seeing as it was my only night last week to make due on a night out. Birthdays were celebrated, times were had. The group was reduced to middle schoolers somewhere in the course of the evening. I'm not going to get into it.

Oh, and I got a cat. It just seemed to make sense. Long story. Got her yesterday from the Humane Society. Her name's Zoe. She's black and was bred for her skills in magic and sweet ninja abilities. She's a lot healthier-looking than old, tattered Cruiser (God rest her little soul), although she has a propensity for acquiring much filmy gunk in her right eye, as well as becoming "easily over-stimulated." So basically I've gone from one cat with acute Down Syndrome to one who needs periodic time-outs in the corner when she gets too hyper. Awesome.

Right now, she's perched on top of the T.V., eying up her mortal enemy, Black Spotted Lady Bug Toy. She hates that fucking bug.

Cosmo Quote of the Day:

"Time to give Bozo the Clown and Howdy Doody the Chair for raping America's children. You hear me, don't you?" -- on (innocently) being asked what time it was

...

2005-04-28T00:48:00.000-07:00

One thing I know for sure: a few hours at The Paradise, and you don't know which end is up. I think I might have been solicited by a call girl, but I'm not sure. That's the kind of night I've had.

Off to bed now, where I'll hold my nose and jackknife off the cliff into the tepid water of tomorrow...

Bar Fly

2005-04-25T23:17:00.000-07:00

"Sunday nights are the professional's nights," a friend of mine once said.

I don't know about that, but Sunday is definitely a good night to tie one on. You never know what'll materialize out of the yellow haze of the weekend's end, the last hurrah for those who refuse to acknowledge the impending thunderhead of Monday looming like a bad dream on the horizon. There is something quite liberating in the wadding up all that compiles your good common sense like a fast food wrapper and throwing it out the window into traffic. You know you're gonna pay for this with a hoard of termites in your head tomorrow as you trudge through the muddy trenches of work, but somehow you don't care. You might miss something fun, afterall, something profound. Right? That's what you tell yourself.

And thus, the Bar Fly took off once more in search for his buzzzz, all upon a Sunday dreary.

The night was a blur, an expurgation of all the bottled up bull plop that was compounding interest over the course of the week in that little broom closet of my id. Drinks were quaffed, conversations were had, money was thrown out the same window as the crumpled up common sense. The gang was all in, and the night was ripe.

And for some reason, I left early. Everything was going fine, but I wanted no part of it. Call it growing up, or maybe just a brain weary of being saturated in booze. Either way, I was out the back door like a whisper caught in your throat, and before I knew it, my new Saucony sneakers (bought at deep discount) were taking the empty vessel of my body homewards. The Madison night life has become like that sweatshirt you've had since you were 16: you don't want to toss it because you've been through so much together, but the damn thing's just to small.

I don't need a new sweatshirt, I need a whole new wardrobe.

Peter's List of Mindblowing Stuff to Check Out:

Book: Atonement by Ian McEwan

CD: Willie Porter, Dog Eared Dream

Fruit: Banana and/or Kumquat

Animal: Squirrel

On A Saturday Sunny

2005-04-23T17:46:00.000-07:00

Well, summer seems to have been skipped following an abbreviated taste of spring fever, and fall plops back onto Madison like a fat guy onto his sofa after a long walk to the fridge and back.

Dammit.

"Just when I think I'm out," right? Well, well, well.

This week has been pure Bukowski, and I am thankful for the break from myself on this Saturday afternoon, despite less than desirable temperatures out of doors. Just call me Chinaski.

Deciding to forgo delivering myself anywhere near a bar of any sort last night, I have left myself a day in which I have awakened to a head devoid of any post-alcohol-imbibing fuzziness and that elusive feeling of productivity. I almost forgot what that felt like. So what did I do when I cracked open my eyes at 8:14 am, rolled back over until around 11, and finally got my ass up at about 11:25? I went to Cleveland's, that's what. By myself. Yeah, that's right. It was wonderful, and I felt at one with the near-noon clamor of the busy diner and the slippery eggs. The clientele of the place is like a mix between a science experiment gone terribly amok or wonderfully brilliant. Between the two pajama-clad dudes debating the pros and cons of Marxism at the table in the corner, the group of coffee shop hippie poet wannabes all so helplessly trendy in their efforts at being "anti," the pair of rather butch lesbians practically making out with one another (wearing identical gray, Army T-shirts, no less), and the rest of the largely hungover cravers of all things greasy, I found it difficult to keep concentration on my crossword. So it goes. I could have done without the little red-headed girl they've got working there, though. She's always bubbly to the point of absurdity, and she runs on her way to do anything, however menial the task. It makes me nervous. I kept having horrid visions of my omelet crashing violently to the floor after she tripped over something in mid-gallop. No one should be that happy at work.

After breakfast, it was off to the coffee house to while away the remainder of the afternoon by drinking dark roast until I could no longer hold my book steady. So I guess my initial feeling of productivity never really yielded anything. At least I've been productive in my lack of productivity. I've got that going for me.

...

2005-04-21T03:24:00.000-07:00

"It's late in the evening," according to Paul Simon. Caught half a buzz here and there after work, spent the past hour or so walking it off and listening to Wilco while thinking things through, and, now, here I sit in a sweet racoon vest I bought off of Cosmo for six bucks. Seriously. Don't ask. So ends another day in the life of Me...

Great Cosmo quote of the Day:

"Hell's a nice place if you like bats. You hear me, kids?"

Funniest Quote of the Day:

"So I think I had a gay, speed-metal afterbar last night. But I'm not sure, I was blacked out. There were Parliament cigarettes put out in my ashtray."

-- Dom

Quote of the Day:

"To live outside the law you must be honest."

-- Bob Dylan

View From A First Floor Balcony...

2005-04-18T17:41:00.000-07:00

Twilight descends upon Madison as soft as a feather, and here I sit in the growing darkness on Grandma's old easy chair, listening to the gradual dwindle of happy chirping from the branches above. How wonderful. Tranquility laps at my uncluttered brain like the cool water of a lake with no agenda, and all, for the moment, is well. The bustle of downtown seems distant and removed as the orange sky gives way to a pre-darkness pale blue, the only things working are the spiders twirling their webs about the porch, and there is an open, job-well-done beer opened and awaiting my instructions on the table to my right. This is the way I like it. As to what job it was exactly that was so well done, well, I don't really know to be honest, but it just seemed like a good idea. Cold beer is always appropriate, especially on nights when I remain out of doors in shorts and a T-shirt when it is nigh on eight o' clock.

Boy, it sure is great to have that fucking ape called Winter off my back...

Things I learned today:

That noise coming from the upstairs apartment that sounds like someone bench-pressing a sumo wrestler is most definitely our neighbors engaging in some very apathetic sounding sexual intercourse. "Cool," you might think. No. This is not "cool." It is distracting from my daily quest for nirvana. Besides, these people are not what I would term pleasant or cordial in any sense of the words. In fact, they, the woman especially, may be directly in cahoots with Satan himself. I'm only saying. The only redeeming factor I can see from our brief exchanges is the guy's initials are J. Hendrix. Sweet. Sort of. It'd be a lot cooler if J. didn't stand for Jason.
Breathing becomes much less labored following the relief of quitting a job you don't particularly enjoy being lifted off of your shoulders. While my time at "Hank's" drawing to a close does mark the end of an era in my life, the time has come to boogie forward to a new scene. The longer I worked there, the more like a rabid squirrel I became. I was lost in a maze with no reward at the end. As of today, an ultimatum has been laid down, and I await the reply. Either way, I walk. Pretty much. Mixed feelings ensue. More as it unravels. As if you care.
My brain is numb with spring fever. Each year I feel like a blind man who's just been granted sight for the first time, and I am completely, helplessly hypnotized by the sudden onslaught of all the flesh jiggling around. Holy crap. The female form is a powerful weapon. Or perhaps I'm just a pervert. Either way, I walk. Oh wait--I said that already.

And onwards into the night...

...

2005-04-17T23:09:00.000-07:00

When the hell did the weekend suddenly become the weekcontinuingindefinitely? Did I miss something here, or what? I remember back in the good old days when the Monday through Friday abyss was pleasantly bookended by those two shining, back-to-back 24-hour periods of relaxation and glorious, unbridled freedom known as Saturday and Sunday. Ah, to think back upon it! The sun seemed to be forever suspended in a backdrop of blue sky, and the hours in between the last morning cartoon and dinnertime seemed to stretch for eons. Those were the days when innocent hedonism was supreme, a time when chasing after a fly ball to the warning track was more important than chasing tail or a cheap buzz, a time when life was still early enough for there to be a little dew on the lawn. Life, however, continues to scroll by, and I welcome the future with open arms and a bottle of inexpensive champagne. The fact that the weekend has blended with the work week in an amalgamated mess of deadlines and obligations comes with growing up and living in the hustle and bustle of the American rat race, I guess. That doesn't mean I have to like it, nor does it mean that I will not do my damnedest to avoid abiding by those standards. I cannot help but worry, though, that someday soon I'm going to open my eyes to a big "The End" written in glaring cursive before me without ever really having seen the movie.

I dunno, this stuff's been on my mind for the last few days. Not sure what my point is. I'm currently in a weird state of consciousness where sleep dangles before me like a carrot to a rabbit who hasn't eaten in a decade, but it's that fool's gold type of fatigue where you know that if you gave in and went to bed, you'd be lying there for hours staring at the ceiling in amazement at how tired you feel, in addition to how the brown water mark above your bed bears an uncanny resemblance to Kevin Spacey. Or, maybe that's just me. Why oh why couldn't it have been Heidi Klum?!

Damn you, Shitty Leaky Pipes In The Upstairs Apartment, damn you to hell!

...

2005-04-12T00:45:00.000-07:00

I've begun a blog, a blog I have begun. Or perhaps it's begun me. Only time will tell...

Following a particularly exemplary beginning to 2005, which has continued to blossom, despite my furious objections, into a mangy devil-bush overgrown with gnarled thorns and spindly needles, I have sought out this website as a means of catharsis and the pursuit of a new-found inner peace. Amidst all of the exposed flesh and shameless commercialism that floats lazily throughout our netspace like a million hungry buzzards, I figure the fodder that spews forth from my fingertips will either fit right in with the rubbish or be hailed as a welcomed addition to the ever-increasing quagmire. Who's to say where this particular path of abused words and lofty thought may lead, if anywhere at all, but I choose to think optimistically and with a head devoid of static. Firm footing will be found just over the hill, and the breeze that ruffles my hair whispers of good things to come. After all, the only direction to go from where I sit in this bleak chasm is up. At least that's what they tell me. Just ignore that shovel over there...

See you in Oz, or somewhere along the way.

...

2005-04-11T09:47:00.000-07:00

And thus begins my swan dive into the digital oblivion that is the World Wide Web... Wish me luck.