My Christmas vacation is coming to an end, my return to work a mere two hours away. And what a night to return to the grind! New Year's Eve, in theory the busiest and most profitable night of the year for a hack. I'm looking forward to making lots of money, but I'm not looking forward to all the obnoxious drunks I have to deal with to get said money.
My last day as a free man was a mixed one, but a good one overall. It started off with me waking up two or three hours earlier than I wished, the siren call of the bathroom beckoning me. I think I was still drunk when I woke up, the post-trivia celebration from the night before still taking its toll. I rounded up my dirty clothes and headed to the laundromat. I popped over to Ruski's for some breakfast and verbal abuse from the bartender, Beth. She was subdued, which disappointed me a bit, but she did call me stupid so I at least got a taste.
A few hours later I headed out to get some gum and a glue stick. Somewhere along the way between Fort Awesome and Rite-Aid I lost my phone. It fell right out of my pocket. I traced my steps several times and searched this one trashcan outside the Cumberland Farms twice (occasionally I get absent-minded and throw non-rubbish away with the rubbish). Nothing. Nothing at all. I was freaking out, because while my phone is cheap and slowly dying, I still need the thing until I get a replacement some time next month. So I decided to call my phone to see if anyone picked it up. The Cumby's payphone wasn't working, so I went inside to see if I can borrow theirs. They have a stupid policy about an employee making the call and talking for you. Cumby's land called my phone, and someone picked up! My phone was Mercy Hospital. I hightailed it there (or as hightailing as I get), and, huzzah!, my phone was with the ER receptionist! Some man found it on the sidewalk somewhere and thought he would just bring it to Mercy figuring its owner would call soon enough. Thanks, stranger!
As it turns out, RiteAid didn't carry the sort of glue stick I needed (rats!) so I walked over to that leper's colony known as Paul's Food Center. It seems state-issued welfare checks and what-have-you came a day early so the place was packed. I was next in line at the checkout and still had to wait for fifteen minutes. This couple had two vouchers of some sort and a EBT card and kept trying to figure out what they could afford and what they couldn't. Jesus fucking Christ.
In the early evening I went across the hall and hung out with Bethlynne and her son, who, some few months ago, was dubber "coolest baby in the USA" by another child. We had Chinese take-out and watched A Knight's Tale and I tickled the bejeezus out of that kid, who is super smart and cracks me up. I spent a few hours over there and had a really nice time.
Later I went with the roommates to Ruski's and had some beers. Ass-cold Pibbers never done me wrong. And then it was after-hours fun at Pook's place. I drank warm Guinness and played cards and stayed until three. Stumbled home, tooled around on guakbot until five for some reason, and passed out.
I woke up today a bit hungover and really dehydrated. Went over to Marcy's for the perfect pancake combination, which I couldn't finish. Marcy's in my Sunday afternoon ritual, and every year they close down for the month of January. I think that's one of the reasons, for me anyways, January seems to drag on forever.
Time to make myself pretty for work. Have a fun and safe and smart New Year's Eve. Call me if you need a ride.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Thursday, December 30, 2010
My Christmas Vacation, Part VII: Ain't Nuttin' Trivial 'Bout It
It had been some time since the +16 Holy Avengers had assembled. That's the team I play on for trivia night at Brian Boru. If you get the nerdy reference, kudos to you! If you do not, then perhaps you are deserving of even more kudos.
Trivia night is held every Wednesday with a few exceptions: the night before Thanksgiving, and if a holiday falls on a Wednesday, like Christmas (and Christmas Eve I'm assuming) and St. Patrick's Day. There was a seven week tournament held from October until the first week of December. The Holy Avengers didn't fare so well: we rallied towards the end, but the rocky start was just too much for us to overcome. After the tournament, I was burned out, so I ended up skipping the last three trivia nights (though two of those nights I was busy doing something else (the Damnationland DVD premiere party and traveling to New York, I am confident I still would have skipped trivia those weeks).
But last night I was excited to go. I was in Portland, on vacation, and I had a burning desire to put my recollection skills to the test. There were only four teams altogether, but all of our opposition were trivia regulars and die hard, so we still had a fight on our hands. I tried to round up our tournament team to play, but only four out of the six, Scott, Krysta, Sofia, and myself, were available, but I found two worthy substitutes: Pook, who is plays occasionally, and Luke, a founding member of the Holy Avengers who hadn't played in months (sadly, neither Bethlynne nor Krister could join us).
It was a hard fought battle, and our scores for the rounds weren't particularly consistent: 8, 10, 7, 6, 7, 10 (out of a maximum score of 10 points per round). That last ten was enough for us to tie the game with Team PBR at 48 points apiece, forcing a tie-breaker.
Tie-breakers work as follows: each team sends up one person (this is usually a one-on-one situation, but I have been involved in two three-ways (and not the good kind)). Triviamaster Shawn then asks five questions, and whoever answers the most correctly is declared the winner. In the event of a tie, he asks one question, and the person who answers it correctly first wins. Pretty straight forward stuff.
I am the de facto tie-breaker guy for the Holy Avengers. PBR sent up their standard champion, a man so good he sometimes plays by himself and still places. What I am saying is that despite the fact that he comes to trivia with his shirt tucked into his sweatpants (an obvious sign of giving up on life), the fellow knows his shit. Shawn asks the five questions, and we each get a 4 out of 5 (we both got the same question wrong: "Where is the Wazoo River?"), forcing a sudden death situation. I was confident going in to that scenario because even though Sweatpants knows lots and lots of stuff, he thinks long and hard about his answers, while I'm the sort of person that, for the most part, if I know it I know it right away. The final question was this: "what song contains the lyric 'I've got blisters on my fingers'?" Answer: "Helter Skelter." It took me about two seconds to remember and blurt out the answer. And The +16 Holy Avengers were declared the winners!
The spoils of war were $50 in free alcohol, and I certainly had more than my share of the winnings. Some of us celebrated right up until closing time at one. That walk home was a bit of a pain, and I think I may have woken up today still drunk.
It feels pretty great being a +17 Holy Avenger.
(for the record: the Wazoo River is in Mississippi)
Trivia night is held every Wednesday with a few exceptions: the night before Thanksgiving, and if a holiday falls on a Wednesday, like Christmas (and Christmas Eve I'm assuming) and St. Patrick's Day. There was a seven week tournament held from October until the first week of December. The Holy Avengers didn't fare so well: we rallied towards the end, but the rocky start was just too much for us to overcome. After the tournament, I was burned out, so I ended up skipping the last three trivia nights (though two of those nights I was busy doing something else (the Damnationland DVD premiere party and traveling to New York, I am confident I still would have skipped trivia those weeks).
But last night I was excited to go. I was in Portland, on vacation, and I had a burning desire to put my recollection skills to the test. There were only four teams altogether, but all of our opposition were trivia regulars and die hard, so we still had a fight on our hands. I tried to round up our tournament team to play, but only four out of the six, Scott, Krysta, Sofia, and myself, were available, but I found two worthy substitutes: Pook, who is plays occasionally, and Luke, a founding member of the Holy Avengers who hadn't played in months (sadly, neither Bethlynne nor Krister could join us).
It was a hard fought battle, and our scores for the rounds weren't particularly consistent: 8, 10, 7, 6, 7, 10 (out of a maximum score of 10 points per round). That last ten was enough for us to tie the game with Team PBR at 48 points apiece, forcing a tie-breaker.
Tie-breakers work as follows: each team sends up one person (this is usually a one-on-one situation, but I have been involved in two three-ways (and not the good kind)). Triviamaster Shawn then asks five questions, and whoever answers the most correctly is declared the winner. In the event of a tie, he asks one question, and the person who answers it correctly first wins. Pretty straight forward stuff.
I am the de facto tie-breaker guy for the Holy Avengers. PBR sent up their standard champion, a man so good he sometimes plays by himself and still places. What I am saying is that despite the fact that he comes to trivia with his shirt tucked into his sweatpants (an obvious sign of giving up on life), the fellow knows his shit. Shawn asks the five questions, and we each get a 4 out of 5 (we both got the same question wrong: "Where is the Wazoo River?"), forcing a sudden death situation. I was confident going in to that scenario because even though Sweatpants knows lots and lots of stuff, he thinks long and hard about his answers, while I'm the sort of person that, for the most part, if I know it I know it right away. The final question was this: "what song contains the lyric 'I've got blisters on my fingers'?" Answer: "Helter Skelter." It took me about two seconds to remember and blurt out the answer. And The +16 Holy Avengers were declared the winners!
The spoils of war were $50 in free alcohol, and I certainly had more than my share of the winnings. Some of us celebrated right up until closing time at one. That walk home was a bit of a pain, and I think I may have woken up today still drunk.
It feels pretty great being a +17 Holy Avenger.
(for the record: the Wazoo River is in Mississippi)
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
My Christmas Vacation, Part VI: Home Sweet Home?
Wow, yesterday sure did suck! I got about four hours of sleep in me, and then the awesomeness of my day started. I really wish I had brought boots with me, because those streets and sidewalks in New York sure were snowy and slushy, and Chuck Taylors, made of canvas and with two holes on the side of each shoe, are not known for their water resistance. My bag, because I ridiculously packed way too much crap, easily weighed 75 lbs. So one of my sisters loaned me a bag with a shoulder strap to help offset some of that. It helped, but, Jesus!, was it a pain in the keister lugging my luggage around.
Sisters and I were going to take a bus, but we managed to flag down a yellow cab. The guy was a white native New Yorker, which was surprising, but he may have been operating a gypsy cab: the little slot where his medallion ID is to go was empty. Already my feet were drenched. Traffic was nasty, and we were concerned that I wouldn't make my bus, so we got out about halfway and took the train near Penn Station and walked the few blocks to where I was to be picked up. I said goodbye to my sisters and off they went.
I arrived at 34th and 8th at around 11:15, and my bus was due to leave at noon. But Bolt Bus canceled all their trips Sunday and Monday due to the blizzard that dumped two feet into the city, so there were motherfuckers waiting left and right. My feet were soaked and the wind picked up and I felt like my feet were going to freeze and fall off, which would make my life incredibly difficult.
The bus showed up at 12:30. There were people waiting in line with tickets for departures at 11:00 and 11:30. Those buses never showed up, so they got priority seating. Luckily, I was able to get on the bus I had a ticket for because I'm not sure my feet could survive much longer out there. One lady had a ticket for 12:30 and insisted that she be allowed on the bus, and the driver had to keep telling her to back off. He was obviously getting agitated, and I was hoping he would literally rip her head off and punt it. But instead, she got the last available seat. This irked me: she should have at least been bumped. Oh, well. My medical advisor suggested I change my socks once I was on the bus to prevent frost bite. I did have a pair of dry socks stuffed in my coat pocket, though I was obviously reluctant to take my shoes and socks off in the middle of a packed bus.
My 12:00 bus left at around 12:45. The bus was toasty, and my feet warmed up quickly, feeling returning to my toes. So though my feet were drenched I was in no danger of getting frostbite so I left my nasty socks on. The bus was packed with people, but I lucked out and sat beside a tiny lady. It also helped that she was one of the cutest latinas that I've ever seen. Our driver introduced himself as Flash, and he was a nice enough fellow despite dealing with scores of cranky people. Traffic, of course, was a bitch, and after three and a half hours we had only made it to Hartford. Flash pulled the bus into a Burger King, and said we were taking a fifteen minute break. I found this unusual, but I didn't mind: my tailbone and legs were really bothering me so the stretching was AMAZING. Back on the bus, and the rest of the trip, which took an hour and a half, was uneventful save for the dog that had been smuggled onto the bus started yapping up a storm. Luckily I bought headphones the day before, plugged them into guakbot, and drowned the bitch out. We pulled into South Station a little past six. Flash wished us happy holidays and told us we all the power within us to change the world. And then he preached to us about God, and my opinion of Flash quickly soured.
My plan for the night was to stay in Boston with my friend, Michelle. We were to go bowling with her cousins and maybe do some drinking. But, I decided to bail. The lack of boots, the weight of my bags, the lack of sleep. I was miserable and wanted nothing more than to go home. Thankfully she understood and wasn't mad, but I was mighty bummed out by the whole thing.
So, instead of staying the night in Boston I took a 7:15 bus back to Portland. And the ride went off without a hitch! Concord Trailways rocks! There was plenty of leg room, the wi-fi didn't fuck with me, there was no traffic, and there were only twenty people on the bus so I didn't have to sit beside anyone. I got to Portland a little after nine. The second best cab driver in Portland drove me home, and my plan was to stay there. I was to kick back, play a new video game that I got for Christmas, and maybe have a drink or two. But I got a text requesting my presence at The Armory. I figured why not, I had been craving some interaction with folks that are non-kin.
I got to the bar a little after eleven. I won't get into it too much, but one of the people I was with had waaaaay too much drink and was a little tough to take. A little after midnight he decided to pick up one side of the table, making beer spill everywhere. I had reached my wit's end so I grabbed my coat and left without even saying goodbye. Welcome home, Guak!
I met up with Pook and we went to Ruski's, which I had missed terribly. One of the barflies gave me a hug and welcomed me back, and I liked that. Pook and I hung out for a bit, and it was nice. It's rare that just the two of us hang out one-on-one.
I'm glad that my first night back in Portland ended on a high note.
Sisters and I were going to take a bus, but we managed to flag down a yellow cab. The guy was a white native New Yorker, which was surprising, but he may have been operating a gypsy cab: the little slot where his medallion ID is to go was empty. Already my feet were drenched. Traffic was nasty, and we were concerned that I wouldn't make my bus, so we got out about halfway and took the train near Penn Station and walked the few blocks to where I was to be picked up. I said goodbye to my sisters and off they went.
I arrived at 34th and 8th at around 11:15, and my bus was due to leave at noon. But Bolt Bus canceled all their trips Sunday and Monday due to the blizzard that dumped two feet into the city, so there were motherfuckers waiting left and right. My feet were soaked and the wind picked up and I felt like my feet were going to freeze and fall off, which would make my life incredibly difficult.
The bus showed up at 12:30. There were people waiting in line with tickets for departures at 11:00 and 11:30. Those buses never showed up, so they got priority seating. Luckily, I was able to get on the bus I had a ticket for because I'm not sure my feet could survive much longer out there. One lady had a ticket for 12:30 and insisted that she be allowed on the bus, and the driver had to keep telling her to back off. He was obviously getting agitated, and I was hoping he would literally rip her head off and punt it. But instead, she got the last available seat. This irked me: she should have at least been bumped. Oh, well. My medical advisor suggested I change my socks once I was on the bus to prevent frost bite. I did have a pair of dry socks stuffed in my coat pocket, though I was obviously reluctant to take my shoes and socks off in the middle of a packed bus.
My 12:00 bus left at around 12:45. The bus was toasty, and my feet warmed up quickly, feeling returning to my toes. So though my feet were drenched I was in no danger of getting frostbite so I left my nasty socks on. The bus was packed with people, but I lucked out and sat beside a tiny lady. It also helped that she was one of the cutest latinas that I've ever seen. Our driver introduced himself as Flash, and he was a nice enough fellow despite dealing with scores of cranky people. Traffic, of course, was a bitch, and after three and a half hours we had only made it to Hartford. Flash pulled the bus into a Burger King, and said we were taking a fifteen minute break. I found this unusual, but I didn't mind: my tailbone and legs were really bothering me so the stretching was AMAZING. Back on the bus, and the rest of the trip, which took an hour and a half, was uneventful save for the dog that had been smuggled onto the bus started yapping up a storm. Luckily I bought headphones the day before, plugged them into guakbot, and drowned the bitch out. We pulled into South Station a little past six. Flash wished us happy holidays and told us we all the power within us to change the world. And then he preached to us about God, and my opinion of Flash quickly soured.
My plan for the night was to stay in Boston with my friend, Michelle. We were to go bowling with her cousins and maybe do some drinking. But, I decided to bail. The lack of boots, the weight of my bags, the lack of sleep. I was miserable and wanted nothing more than to go home. Thankfully she understood and wasn't mad, but I was mighty bummed out by the whole thing.
So, instead of staying the night in Boston I took a 7:15 bus back to Portland. And the ride went off without a hitch! Concord Trailways rocks! There was plenty of leg room, the wi-fi didn't fuck with me, there was no traffic, and there were only twenty people on the bus so I didn't have to sit beside anyone. I got to Portland a little after nine. The second best cab driver in Portland drove me home, and my plan was to stay there. I was to kick back, play a new video game that I got for Christmas, and maybe have a drink or two. But I got a text requesting my presence at The Armory. I figured why not, I had been craving some interaction with folks that are non-kin.
I got to the bar a little after eleven. I won't get into it too much, but one of the people I was with had waaaaay too much drink and was a little tough to take. A little after midnight he decided to pick up one side of the table, making beer spill everywhere. I had reached my wit's end so I grabbed my coat and left without even saying goodbye. Welcome home, Guak!
I met up with Pook and we went to Ruski's, which I had missed terribly. One of the barflies gave me a hug and welcomed me back, and I liked that. Pook and I hung out for a bit, and it was nice. It's rare that just the two of us hang out one-on-one.
I'm glad that my first night back in Portland ended on a high note.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
My Christmas Vacation, Part V: Thanks For Nothing, Michael Bloomberg!
I left The Flo' today to slowly head back up to Portland. I took one last walk over to Ken's Corner to see Frannie, but she wasn't there. Honestly, I was a little bummed she wasn't working, but Ken was, and he did smile when I came in. Maybe he does that with everyone. I don't know. I liked it nonetheless.
I said goodbye to my parents, and that made me sad. It was really nice seeing them, and for the first time in a long time, I wasn't ready to move on after being with them for three days. I'm not sure when I'll be seeing them again, but those days spent with them were great.
The sisters and I packed up the car and headed out at around 12:30pm. The ride was uneventful; I played a game on guakbot until his battery died and then I had a four hour text fest. Jesus, that can get exhausting. The roads were bare and the only traffic we encountered was between Fredericksburg, Virginia and DC. Due to the traffic and frequent breaks for gas, food, and/or trips to the bathroom, we arrived in New York City around 12:30.
Then the real bullshit started. Ice and snow were still over many of the major thoroughfares and bridges; driving was a bit treacherous for my sister. And once was got to Flushing, the fun started. There is no snow removal in the city. Plows get the snow off the streets, and then it's up to rain or sun or above freezing temperatures to take care of it. I remember going to Flushing last year for Christmas, and there was still snow everywhere and cars were still blocked in by the banks the plows made. And the last time it had snowed was almost a week before. So this time we're driving and the cars are stuck in snowbanks three feet or higher. A few cars were left in the street, forcing the plows to go around them. I can assume the drivers got stuck and left their cars there. We get to my sisters' street and, while it was plowed, there was still a two feet snow wall to penetrate to get to it. So we decide to try getting to her block from the other side. We tried it and got stuck. After ten minutes or so we were able to break up enough of the snow to dislodge it. Yay! But then my sister got stuck again trying to pull into her drive-way. Boo! This took about thirty minutes of work. My sisters don't have a shovel. but they have a number of field hockey sticks so we broke up a lot of the ice and packed snow under the car. With a lot of pushing, and one incident of me wiping out (in case you didn't know: Chuck Taylors are horrible in the snow), my sisters and I were finally able to get the car into the drive-way.
I am exhausted. I would write a bit more, but I have to wake up in about five hours. I'm not going to even proof read the thing.
Smell you later.
I said goodbye to my parents, and that made me sad. It was really nice seeing them, and for the first time in a long time, I wasn't ready to move on after being with them for three days. I'm not sure when I'll be seeing them again, but those days spent with them were great.
The sisters and I packed up the car and headed out at around 12:30pm. The ride was uneventful; I played a game on guakbot until his battery died and then I had a four hour text fest. Jesus, that can get exhausting. The roads were bare and the only traffic we encountered was between Fredericksburg, Virginia and DC. Due to the traffic and frequent breaks for gas, food, and/or trips to the bathroom, we arrived in New York City around 12:30.
Then the real bullshit started. Ice and snow were still over many of the major thoroughfares and bridges; driving was a bit treacherous for my sister. And once was got to Flushing, the fun started. There is no snow removal in the city. Plows get the snow off the streets, and then it's up to rain or sun or above freezing temperatures to take care of it. I remember going to Flushing last year for Christmas, and there was still snow everywhere and cars were still blocked in by the banks the plows made. And the last time it had snowed was almost a week before. So this time we're driving and the cars are stuck in snowbanks three feet or higher. A few cars were left in the street, forcing the plows to go around them. I can assume the drivers got stuck and left their cars there. We get to my sisters' street and, while it was plowed, there was still a two feet snow wall to penetrate to get to it. So we decide to try getting to her block from the other side. We tried it and got stuck. After ten minutes or so we were able to break up enough of the snow to dislodge it. Yay! But then my sister got stuck again trying to pull into her drive-way. Boo! This took about thirty minutes of work. My sisters don't have a shovel. but they have a number of field hockey sticks so we broke up a lot of the ice and packed snow under the car. With a lot of pushing, and one incident of me wiping out (in case you didn't know: Chuck Taylors are horrible in the snow), my sisters and I were finally able to get the car into the drive-way.
I am exhausted. I would write a bit more, but I have to wake up in about five hours. I'm not going to even proof read the thing.
Smell you later.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
My Christmas Vacation, Part IV: The Bride Of The Flo'
This is my last night in The Flo'. Part of me is looking forward to heading back to Portland. There are a few people that I see a few times a week, and it seems really weird not seeing them. I would even go so far as to say I miss them. And, God, I miss Ruski's.
On the other hand, I've really enjoyed my time down here. It's been relaxing. I haven't done much of anything, and I don't feel the least bit bad about it. I left my worries back home, and they haven't been dwelling on my mind since. And the sleep! The sleep! I haven't slept this consistently well in years! It's been positively fucking fantastic!
Many businesses in The Flo' are closed on Sunday. Many of the folks go to church Sundays. Twice. I cannot even fathom that idea. I really can't. And because of the "storm" (it snowed all day and only amounted to an accumulation of 2") many others closed down. Pathetic.
I went with my mother and sisters to spend a little bit of the green I got, and we landed at the Magnolia Mall. There wasn't a whole lot to it. I was irked that it was the day after Christmas and Christmas music was still playing. Not winter music, but "White Christmas." Disappointing, The Flo', disappointing. At least all the stores at the mall were open, with the exception of Chic-Fil-A. Apparently every franchise is closed every Sunday. Religious zealotry trumping profit? Now I've heard everything!
I walked into a GameStop today, and it reeked of sweat. I wasn't surprised.
I was a little bummed out it snowed today; one of the reasons I wanted to go to South Carolina was to escape the cold and snow, and it's been snowing all day. I took a walk to Ken's Corner to see Frannie one last time. The sky was just spitting at that point. The ground wore a blanket of fluffy white snow, the (few) streetlights and night sky giving it a glow of purity. And it was pretty. I passed a few palm trees, and I found them funny and strangely beautiful, snow collecting on tropical plants.
Frannie wasn't at The Corner. I will have to stop by once more before leaving.
I will miss you, The Flo'.
On the other hand, I've really enjoyed my time down here. It's been relaxing. I haven't done much of anything, and I don't feel the least bit bad about it. I left my worries back home, and they haven't been dwelling on my mind since. And the sleep! The sleep! I haven't slept this consistently well in years! It's been positively fucking fantastic!
Many businesses in The Flo' are closed on Sunday. Many of the folks go to church Sundays. Twice. I cannot even fathom that idea. I really can't. And because of the "storm" (it snowed all day and only amounted to an accumulation of 2") many others closed down. Pathetic.
I went with my mother and sisters to spend a little bit of the green I got, and we landed at the Magnolia Mall. There wasn't a whole lot to it. I was irked that it was the day after Christmas and Christmas music was still playing. Not winter music, but "White Christmas." Disappointing, The Flo', disappointing. At least all the stores at the mall were open, with the exception of Chic-Fil-A. Apparently every franchise is closed every Sunday. Religious zealotry trumping profit? Now I've heard everything!
I walked into a GameStop today, and it reeked of sweat. I wasn't surprised.
I was a little bummed out it snowed today; one of the reasons I wanted to go to South Carolina was to escape the cold and snow, and it's been snowing all day. I took a walk to Ken's Corner to see Frannie one last time. The sky was just spitting at that point. The ground wore a blanket of fluffy white snow, the (few) streetlights and night sky giving it a glow of purity. And it was pretty. I passed a few palm trees, and I found them funny and strangely beautiful, snow collecting on tropical plants.
Frannie wasn't at The Corner. I will have to stop by once more before leaving.
I will miss you, The Flo'.
My Christmas Vacation, Part III: The Flo'
Florence, South Carolina is a sleepy little city. It has a population of over 32,000 souls and celebrated its birthday on Christmas Eve. Florence is now, as Willard Scott would say, 120 years young.
Florence (or "The Flo'" as I have decided to call it) is fairly rural, with big box stores and strip malls peppered throughout. The downtown, like many downtown areas around the country, is run-down and many storefronts with boarder up windows. The businesses that are there include some "urban" clothing stores, salons/barbershops, liquor stores, and pawn shops. Two years ago my mother decided to give my sisters and I a "tour" of the tiny downtown. We drove past this one...gentleman...standing in front of one of the abandoned storefronts. My mother pointed at him and said something like "look at that guy." The fellow noticed my mother's pointing and made a gesture of his own, his in the shape of a gun, and pointed it at us and said "merry Christmas." To this day my mother sees nothing wrong with she she did.
There is a gas station about a mile from my parents' crib that I've been frequenting for pop and newspapers. It's called "Ken's Corner" and is owned and operated by Ken and Frannie, two Sikhs from India (something tells me their names may have been Westernized). They are very nice, and now Frannie is excited to see me (maybe because I still have my teeth and don't speak like an idiot).
Next door from Ken's Corner is George's Package Store. The corner liquor stores are called package shops, and I really like that. I'm assuming it's called George's: the sign in the window says "Georges Package Store" so maybe it is owned by a Frenchman.
I saw a little person walking out of the CVS. She was of color, wore cowboy boots, and was hauling a lot of junk in her trunk. She climbed into a small black pick-up truck with lots of chrome and some craaaazy hubcaps. It was pretty great.
The Flo' isn't big on sidewalks. The only streets that have them, as far as I can tell, are the major roads, and those don't have crossing signals. It is kind of like Frogger walking out here. Except fun.
I wish I could tell you more about The Flo', but seriously, that's all there is to it.
Florence (or "The Flo'" as I have decided to call it) is fairly rural, with big box stores and strip malls peppered throughout. The downtown, like many downtown areas around the country, is run-down and many storefronts with boarder up windows. The businesses that are there include some "urban" clothing stores, salons/barbershops, liquor stores, and pawn shops. Two years ago my mother decided to give my sisters and I a "tour" of the tiny downtown. We drove past this one...gentleman...standing in front of one of the abandoned storefronts. My mother pointed at him and said something like "look at that guy." The fellow noticed my mother's pointing and made a gesture of his own, his in the shape of a gun, and pointed it at us and said "merry Christmas." To this day my mother sees nothing wrong with she she did.
There is a gas station about a mile from my parents' crib that I've been frequenting for pop and newspapers. It's called "Ken's Corner" and is owned and operated by Ken and Frannie, two Sikhs from India (something tells me their names may have been Westernized). They are very nice, and now Frannie is excited to see me (maybe because I still have my teeth and don't speak like an idiot).
Next door from Ken's Corner is George's Package Store. The corner liquor stores are called package shops, and I really like that. I'm assuming it's called George's: the sign in the window says "Georges Package Store" so maybe it is owned by a Frenchman.
I saw a little person walking out of the CVS. She was of color, wore cowboy boots, and was hauling a lot of junk in her trunk. She climbed into a small black pick-up truck with lots of chrome and some craaaazy hubcaps. It was pretty great.
The Flo' isn't big on sidewalks. The only streets that have them, as far as I can tell, are the major roads, and those don't have crossing signals. It is kind of like Frogger walking out here. Except fun.
I wish I could tell you more about The Flo', but seriously, that's all there is to it.
Friday, December 24, 2010
My Christmas Vacation, Part II: Electric Boogaloo
We hit the road in Queens at about 6:45 in the morning, after stopping to pick up some food. I had a nutritious breakfast of Sausage McMuffins and blueberry chip doughnuts. Ugh. We had to leave so early because the city had issued a gridlock warning, predicting that this would be the busiest day of the yearfor motorists. We got out of the city with little difficulty.
That was really the only smooth sailing we were able to get. The whole trip was supposed to take between ten and eleven hours. And how long did it take us? Fourteen fucking hours. There were really two reasons for this. The first is that my sisters needed to stop every few hours to use the bathroom. After their bladders had been drained they each get something to drink, ensuring another stop in two hours. Now, I drink a lot of pop, perhaps more than I should (even after switching to diet varieties), but it was mighty ridiculous.
The second reason, and the real culprit here, was the traffic. Holy shit, it was thick in spots. It really hit once we passed Baltimore and headed towards DC. Then we came to a crawl or sometimes a complete stop. We would be stuck for a while and then driving would resume normally then would come to a halt again. Sometimes it would be because of a junction. It once was due to an accident: a four-car pile-up. In the north bound lanes. Rubbernecking dicks. It took us three hours to go a little over fifty miles, but it allowed us to stop in Fredericksburg and eat at Wendy's. Fast-food twice in one day? What a treat!
I took three naps during the journey, which is quite an accomplishment for me. I'm not much of a napper: they make me feel weird for the rest of the day, and they tend to further screw up my already screwed up sleeping patterns. And falling asleep in a moving vehicle is next to impossible, so taking three (albeit short) naps in a car is a good indication of how super tired I was.
The music drove me crazy. My sisters enjoy the Top 40 radio stations, and while I admit I have been listening to way too much of The Q lately, the same fifteen - twenty songs were really too much for me. I was getting sick of that Rihanna and Drake song, and it played so much that one of my sisters wouldn't listen to it any longer and she loves that song, and now I'm really tired of "Bottoms Up" and I have a twisted like of the verse my Nicki Manaj. And what really bothered me is that it took until the twelfth or thirteenth hour to hear my current favorite guilty pleasure "Like A G6" (I know, I know, ridicule away). At least I got to hear the Butthole Surfers.
About an hour left of the trip, and we stop in Fayetteville, South Carolina. What I saw of this city was awful. Too much of The South resembles a dirty strip mall (I'm looking at you, Delaware), but Fayetteville just seems like the epitome. Even the name sounds like it should be a center for crack and crank. Maybe that's just because the grossest cities in Maine seem to have really strong Franco-American connections. Anyways, we stop at a McDonald's so my sister can use the bathroom, and I can go next door to a gas station and use the bathroom and buy a pop. Soon after I made it back to my sister's car this other car hits the brakes behind us and this guy practically jumps out of the car and quickly walked over to the gas station and started yelling and making some really weird hand motions towards some guy pumping gas. The girl driving the car was rocking back and forth, looking nervous. The sisters and I decided it was a good time to get the fuck out of Dodge. Thanks for perpetuating the stereotype, citizens of Fayetteville! At least the lady at the gas station called me "honey" and said she hopes I stop by again. I don't see that happening.
That was really the only smooth sailing we were able to get. The whole trip was supposed to take between ten and eleven hours. And how long did it take us? Fourteen fucking hours. There were really two reasons for this. The first is that my sisters needed to stop every few hours to use the bathroom. After their bladders had been drained they each get something to drink, ensuring another stop in two hours. Now, I drink a lot of pop, perhaps more than I should (even after switching to diet varieties), but it was mighty ridiculous.
The second reason, and the real culprit here, was the traffic. Holy shit, it was thick in spots. It really hit once we passed Baltimore and headed towards DC. Then we came to a crawl or sometimes a complete stop. We would be stuck for a while and then driving would resume normally then would come to a halt again. Sometimes it would be because of a junction. It once was due to an accident: a four-car pile-up. In the north bound lanes. Rubbernecking dicks. It took us three hours to go a little over fifty miles, but it allowed us to stop in Fredericksburg and eat at Wendy's. Fast-food twice in one day? What a treat!
I took three naps during the journey, which is quite an accomplishment for me. I'm not much of a napper: they make me feel weird for the rest of the day, and they tend to further screw up my already screwed up sleeping patterns. And falling asleep in a moving vehicle is next to impossible, so taking three (albeit short) naps in a car is a good indication of how super tired I was.
The music drove me crazy. My sisters enjoy the Top 40 radio stations, and while I admit I have been listening to way too much of The Q lately, the same fifteen - twenty songs were really too much for me. I was getting sick of that Rihanna and Drake song, and it played so much that one of my sisters wouldn't listen to it any longer and she loves that song, and now I'm really tired of "Bottoms Up" and I have a twisted like of the verse my Nicki Manaj. And what really bothered me is that it took until the twelfth or thirteenth hour to hear my current favorite guilty pleasure "Like A G6" (I know, I know, ridicule away). At least I got to hear the Butthole Surfers.
About an hour left of the trip, and we stop in Fayetteville, South Carolina. What I saw of this city was awful. Too much of The South resembles a dirty strip mall (I'm looking at you, Delaware), but Fayetteville just seems like the epitome. Even the name sounds like it should be a center for crack and crank. Maybe that's just because the grossest cities in Maine seem to have really strong Franco-American connections. Anyways, we stop at a McDonald's so my sister can use the bathroom, and I can go next door to a gas station and use the bathroom and buy a pop. Soon after I made it back to my sister's car this other car hits the brakes behind us and this guy practically jumps out of the car and quickly walked over to the gas station and started yelling and making some really weird hand motions towards some guy pumping gas. The girl driving the car was rocking back and forth, looking nervous. The sisters and I decided it was a good time to get the fuck out of Dodge. Thanks for perpetuating the stereotype, citizens of Fayetteville! At least the lady at the gas station called me "honey" and said she hopes I stop by again. I don't see that happening.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
My Christmas Vacation, Part I: Yoshi Yiagnostic
I woke up at 4:45am today at my sisters' place in Queens. A solid three hours of sleep. Lately 4:45 is usually when I go to sleep. I'm feeling a bit delirious. I went over to the corner store to buy a pop and and newspaper, and there's a business along the way called "Doshi Diagnostic." I thought to myself it would be funny if it was called "Yoshi Yiagnostic" and giggled. I pictured Yoshi doing yiagnostics, whatever that is. Maybe that's what he calls eating an entire egg (of his own species) and then shitting out a gold coin. Or maybe yiagnostics is some religious thing.
The bus ride from Portland to Boston was very pleasant. The driver made a few jokes and sounded like he was constipated. I kept having to switch from changing the source of my wi-fi from one side of the bus to another (two different routers I'm assuming), but other than that no problems. There were only about a dozen of us so I had plenty of room. The movie was How To Train Your Dragon, but I opted to play with guakbot instead. I strongly recommend Concord Trailways for all your Portland-Boston bussing needs. Those Vermont Whatever busses that operate out of the Greyhound station are pieces of shit.
The ride from Boston to New York was not so nice. The service was The Bolt and advertised free wi-fi, electrical outlets, and plenty of legroom. Bullshit. That bus was not spacious. We were packed in like sardines. At the end of the five hour trip (traffic was thick), my knee and tail bone were both really bothering me. The knee was fine after I was able to walk it off, but my tail bone still hurts a bit. I don't know if it was the rain or what, but the wi-fi shit the bed an hour and a half into the journey. So I alternated between reading (after a few months I'm still picking away at The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay) and playing virtual Hearts. A woman behind me was crying, and a little off-putting. I felt both sad for her and annoyed with her. At least the woman beside me was small (and attractive).
During the Boston-NYC trip I got a call from a friend who received a text from another friend. There was an emergency: my aunt was using my real name on my Facebook wall. It's becoming less and less of a secret what my government name is, but I'm still wagering most people don't know it. I was considering letting it slide, not doing anything about it. But I changed my mind: I must protect the brand. If friends of mine are rallying to protect it, then, God damn it, I should too.
The Bolt bus dropped me off somewhere in Manhattan at 10:30pm, 45 minutes later than scheduled. Not at Port Authority, mind you, but just on the side of the road, in front of some diner called Tick Tock. That's not sketchy or anything. One of my sisters meets up with me, and we take a cab to Queens. The driver asks how we're paying for this, and sister answers with her card. The cabbie tells us he's been having problems with his credit card machine all day, which apparently is a common way for drivers not to have to drive people out of Manhattan. They can't refuse to take us outside the borough (that's against city ordinance), but they sure as shit can find some way to dissuade us. Too bad for that guy Guak only deals in cash.
It's now six in the morning. We're supposed to hit the road at six, but my sisters didn't wake up until 5:45 and only after I yelled at them that it was time to rise and shine. This ten hour car ride to South Carolina is going to suck.
The bus ride from Portland to Boston was very pleasant. The driver made a few jokes and sounded like he was constipated. I kept having to switch from changing the source of my wi-fi from one side of the bus to another (two different routers I'm assuming), but other than that no problems. There were only about a dozen of us so I had plenty of room. The movie was How To Train Your Dragon, but I opted to play with guakbot instead. I strongly recommend Concord Trailways for all your Portland-Boston bussing needs. Those Vermont Whatever busses that operate out of the Greyhound station are pieces of shit.
The ride from Boston to New York was not so nice. The service was The Bolt and advertised free wi-fi, electrical outlets, and plenty of legroom. Bullshit. That bus was not spacious. We were packed in like sardines. At the end of the five hour trip (traffic was thick), my knee and tail bone were both really bothering me. The knee was fine after I was able to walk it off, but my tail bone still hurts a bit. I don't know if it was the rain or what, but the wi-fi shit the bed an hour and a half into the journey. So I alternated between reading (after a few months I'm still picking away at The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay) and playing virtual Hearts. A woman behind me was crying, and a little off-putting. I felt both sad for her and annoyed with her. At least the woman beside me was small (and attractive).
During the Boston-NYC trip I got a call from a friend who received a text from another friend. There was an emergency: my aunt was using my real name on my Facebook wall. It's becoming less and less of a secret what my government name is, but I'm still wagering most people don't know it. I was considering letting it slide, not doing anything about it. But I changed my mind: I must protect the brand. If friends of mine are rallying to protect it, then, God damn it, I should too.
The Bolt bus dropped me off somewhere in Manhattan at 10:30pm, 45 minutes later than scheduled. Not at Port Authority, mind you, but just on the side of the road, in front of some diner called Tick Tock. That's not sketchy or anything. One of my sisters meets up with me, and we take a cab to Queens. The driver asks how we're paying for this, and sister answers with her card. The cabbie tells us he's been having problems with his credit card machine all day, which apparently is a common way for drivers not to have to drive people out of Manhattan. They can't refuse to take us outside the borough (that's against city ordinance), but they sure as shit can find some way to dissuade us. Too bad for that guy Guak only deals in cash.
It's now six in the morning. We're supposed to hit the road at six, but my sisters didn't wake up until 5:45 and only after I yelled at them that it was time to rise and shine. This ten hour car ride to South Carolina is going to suck.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
I leave on Wednesday for South Carolina. Christmas in the Dirty South with the parents and sisters. Though it seems like half the days that I'll be gone with be traveling, I'm looking forward to my trip. Wanna know why? That was a rhetorical question, of course you do!
This cold is pissing me off. I know that it's going to get colder, but, shit, I'm just not used to it yet. And my apartment was cold yesterday. Sooooo cold. I was actually looking forward to going to work because the cab is oh-so-warm. As warm as I want in fact. Any circumstance when I want go to work is a circumstance I can do without. But then again, it was only thirty-seven degrees at 1 pm yesterday in Florence where my parents live, so it might end up just being a slight improvement.
Work is driving me crazy. It's been painfully slow ever since Columbus Day, but December, Jesus Christ!, has been been absolutely dead. Unbelievably so. Even Fridays have sucked shit. And that two hour snow storm yesterday was ridiculous. A seventeen-car pile-up here, a ten-car pile-up there. I got stuck on State Street and didn't move until two guys were nice enough to to push me up a hill for five minutes until I got to safety. Driving five miles/hour on 295. A trip that should have taken less than half an hour took me over an hour and a half! Later I drove a flight crew from the airport to their hotel. One of the pilots spoke about just spending some time in West Palm Beach, and when he was there he saw an amazing Stevie Ray Vaughn cover band perform. Him and the other pilot went on and on and on for over five minutes about how fucking great Stevie Ray Vaughn was and which shitty watered-down white boy blues number of his is the best. For those readers who have read the first installment of "GuakTalk"/GuakTalk ("The Onset.") you know I detest that particular Texan with a passion. Earlier, two hipsters wouldn't let me change the station when Bob Seger's version of "Little Drummer Boy" came on the radio. Fuckers. I don't want to drive again until New Year's Eve.
It took me until my parents moved away a few years ago for me to realize that I like being around them, which sucks because now they're hundreds of miles away. Same with my sisters (although as residents of Queens they are not nearly as far away, but I see them just as rarely). Sure, after a few days I've had my fill of 'em, but still...
I need a bit of a break from Portland. She's wearing on me some. A few days away from the ol' girl, from the shit that keeps me from sleeping, may be just what this guy needs.
I don't want to be here right now. I just hope eight days is enough.
This cold is pissing me off. I know that it's going to get colder, but, shit, I'm just not used to it yet. And my apartment was cold yesterday. Sooooo cold. I was actually looking forward to going to work because the cab is oh-so-warm. As warm as I want in fact. Any circumstance when I want go to work is a circumstance I can do without. But then again, it was only thirty-seven degrees at 1 pm yesterday in Florence where my parents live, so it might end up just being a slight improvement.
Work is driving me crazy. It's been painfully slow ever since Columbus Day, but December, Jesus Christ!, has been been absolutely dead. Unbelievably so. Even Fridays have sucked shit. And that two hour snow storm yesterday was ridiculous. A seventeen-car pile-up here, a ten-car pile-up there. I got stuck on State Street and didn't move until two guys were nice enough to to push me up a hill for five minutes until I got to safety. Driving five miles/hour on 295. A trip that should have taken less than half an hour took me over an hour and a half! Later I drove a flight crew from the airport to their hotel. One of the pilots spoke about just spending some time in West Palm Beach, and when he was there he saw an amazing Stevie Ray Vaughn cover band perform. Him and the other pilot went on and on and on for over five minutes about how fucking great Stevie Ray Vaughn was and which shitty watered-down white boy blues number of his is the best. For those readers who have read the first installment of "GuakTalk"/GuakTalk ("The Onset.") you know I detest that particular Texan with a passion. Earlier, two hipsters wouldn't let me change the station when Bob Seger's version of "Little Drummer Boy" came on the radio. Fuckers. I don't want to drive again until New Year's Eve.
It took me until my parents moved away a few years ago for me to realize that I like being around them, which sucks because now they're hundreds of miles away. Same with my sisters (although as residents of Queens they are not nearly as far away, but I see them just as rarely). Sure, after a few days I've had my fill of 'em, but still...
I need a bit of a break from Portland. She's wearing on me some. A few days away from the ol' girl, from the shit that keeps me from sleeping, may be just what this guy needs.
I don't want to be here right now. I just hope eight days is enough.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Sweet Miss Alice
I had the joy of having my favorite regular passenger tonight. If I ever finally get off my ass and find other employment she would be one of the few people I would miss. Her name is Alice, and she's possibly the nicest, sweetest old lady I've ever met. She's hard of hearing so I, being Mumbles McMumbleson, have to repeat a lot of what I say. She gets picked up after her dialysis appointment and is driven to her daughter's house in Scarborough. Back when she paid for her rides she would give $26-27 for a trip that costs $23 and change. Now she's a client/customer/beneficiary of the Regional Transportation Program, meaning RTP now pays for her ride via a charge account, so now it's $23.50 or $19.98 after the fleet owner takes his cut. Despite this, she's still my favorite.
Alice is also the nosiest person I know, though she calls it "being curious." She asks lots and lots of questions about my life, which I would normally find off-putting, but for some reason I spill my guts to the old bird and tell her everything (though I censor it sometimes to spare her conservative Christian ears). Her mind is like a steel trap, recalling almost everything I say. She remembers my parents live in South Carolina and my sisters are in Queens. She kept asking about how filming for Damnationland was coming along, and about the premiere, and if I ever wanted to do more acting. Alice would inquire about my friend that I was more than friends with for a spell and her child.
And tonight was no exception. It was the first time I had picked Alice up in over a month save for the time a few weeks ago, but I had a lame-o trainee with me and we couldn't really rap (which we were both bummed about). She forgot my name (the woman is in her eighties), but after that everything else came back to her, that elephantine memory of hers. I told her about something that had been weighing a bit heavily on my mind, an issue, for various reasons, I feel I really can't talk about to anyone I know. So she listened. Just by confiding in her I felt better. But she gave me some advice and made it seem not so bad. I look forward to our next time together.
Alice is also the nosiest person I know, though she calls it "being curious." She asks lots and lots of questions about my life, which I would normally find off-putting, but for some reason I spill my guts to the old bird and tell her everything (though I censor it sometimes to spare her conservative Christian ears). Her mind is like a steel trap, recalling almost everything I say. She remembers my parents live in South Carolina and my sisters are in Queens. She kept asking about how filming for Damnationland was coming along, and about the premiere, and if I ever wanted to do more acting. Alice would inquire about my friend that I was more than friends with for a spell and her child.
And tonight was no exception. It was the first time I had picked Alice up in over a month save for the time a few weeks ago, but I had a lame-o trainee with me and we couldn't really rap (which we were both bummed about). She forgot my name (the woman is in her eighties), but after that everything else came back to her, that elephantine memory of hers. I told her about something that had been weighing a bit heavily on my mind, an issue, for various reasons, I feel I really can't talk about to anyone I know. So she listened. Just by confiding in her I felt better. But she gave me some advice and made it seem not so bad. I look forward to our next time together.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Ka-Pow!
I used to read a lot of comic books. I would spend soooooo much time money on those things (I spent an average of $30-40 a week on the funny books - no exaggeration). Then I lost my job almost two years ago, and the comics ended. And I found I didn't miss them all that much. Sure, I would slake my thirst for sequential art by borrowing from the library or a friend, or occasionally buying a trade paperback, not a graphic novel (the difference will be explained in a bit), but for the most part I realized that I was spending a lot of money for very little payoff.
Six months after The Movies closed its doors and I was collecting money from the gov'men' I went back to driving cab, but with the exception of the rare "trade" purchase here and there, my comic book buying days are over. I exhausted the selection at the library long ago. But my friend David came over last weekend and we hung out, and he gave me a trade as a belated birthday present and lent me a few more.
Graphic novels and trade paperbacks are both narratives told through sequential art. Trades are collections of stories originally published in serial format, usually as monthly issues with a page count of thirty-two including the ads, whereas graphic novels are self-contained stories and not part of an ongoing series. For example, The Watchmen, originally a twelve-issue limited series (and the best superhero story EVER), is a trade paperback, but Arkham Asylum is a graphic novel. Yet much, if not all, of Charles Dickens' work was originally published in serialized form, but who would say Oliver Twist and Great Expectations aren't novels (albeit boring and unnecessarily wordy ones)?
It was dreadfully slow at work last night so I cracked open the trade David gave me and read the whole damn thing. It was called Battle For The Cowl and involves Batman. Batman, for those not in the know, is my favorite superhero, so I was excited to read it even though Batman isn't even in it (or at least Bruce Wayne is absent). I must say,I was disappointed with the whole thing: the story was ho-hum, too much was going on with little explanation, and there wasn't nearly enough Catwoman. But still it was nice to touch base with some old friends. Even better, it was great to escape. Much of my free time lately has been focused on the real world, whether it be reading the news, both online and in hard copy form, or concentrating on my personal life (with varying degrees of success and failure). I watch a few TV shows a week on Hulu, which aren't really long enough to completely transport me to another world (DVDs are better for that), and it has been some time since I've seen a movie (Damnationland being the notable exception). Sure, I've been playing Fallout: New Vegas, but not so much lately and that game sure is bleak.
It was great returning to Gotham City, reading of lunatics and madmen (and -women), some heroic, mostly villainous, and for maybe an hour and a half, mostly broken into 10-15 minute chunks, my worries and frustrations were gone. And it was awesome.
Six months after The Movies closed its doors and I was collecting money from the gov'men' I went back to driving cab, but with the exception of the rare "trade" purchase here and there, my comic book buying days are over. I exhausted the selection at the library long ago. But my friend David came over last weekend and we hung out, and he gave me a trade as a belated birthday present and lent me a few more.
Graphic novels and trade paperbacks are both narratives told through sequential art. Trades are collections of stories originally published in serial format, usually as monthly issues with a page count of thirty-two including the ads, whereas graphic novels are self-contained stories and not part of an ongoing series. For example, The Watchmen, originally a twelve-issue limited series (and the best superhero story EVER), is a trade paperback, but Arkham Asylum is a graphic novel. Yet much, if not all, of Charles Dickens' work was originally published in serialized form, but who would say Oliver Twist and Great Expectations aren't novels (albeit boring and unnecessarily wordy ones)?
It was dreadfully slow at work last night so I cracked open the trade David gave me and read the whole damn thing. It was called Battle For The Cowl and involves Batman. Batman, for those not in the know, is my favorite superhero, so I was excited to read it even though Batman isn't even in it (or at least Bruce Wayne is absent). I must say,I was disappointed with the whole thing: the story was ho-hum, too much was going on with little explanation, and there wasn't nearly enough Catwoman. But still it was nice to touch base with some old friends. Even better, it was great to escape. Much of my free time lately has been focused on the real world, whether it be reading the news, both online and in hard copy form, or concentrating on my personal life (with varying degrees of success and failure). I watch a few TV shows a week on Hulu, which aren't really long enough to completely transport me to another world (DVDs are better for that), and it has been some time since I've seen a movie (Damnationland being the notable exception). Sure, I've been playing Fallout: New Vegas, but not so much lately and that game sure is bleak.
It was great returning to Gotham City, reading of lunatics and madmen (and -women), some heroic, mostly villainous, and for maybe an hour and a half, mostly broken into 10-15 minute chunks, my worries and frustrations were gone. And it was awesome.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
walkin' and drivin'
I did some walking today. First to drop off the rent. After that my plan was to catch a bus to the video store because I didn't want to deal with the fucking hill, but after a few minutes of standing at the stop I decided I couldn't stand there anymore. It's fucking cold out there. And the wind! Jesus! It's time to break out the warm wool gloves, the think ones I'm sporting now just aren't cutting it anymore. Now, if I can just remember where I put them...
Anyways, I decided I wasn't going to wait for the bus so I decided to hoof it, and the hill wasn't so bad! Got to the video store and got some DVDs. They were free because I'm the shit. And walked back up the hill.
Now, after being off my feet for a few hours, my dogs are mush. My legs too. The cold weather is making my legs ache. Someone told me that's an early sign of arthritis. God, I hope not. That would stink. I like going on walks for an hour or more, but I haven't done it much in the last month or so. In fact, the only times I've gone walking for any extended amount of time happened on Thanksgiving, and that's mostly because my family's football-watching habits drove me out of my sisters' apartment. And because I like looking at attractive Asian ladies.
So my plan tonight is to kick back, watch some movies, and drink Diet Cherry Dr. Pepper and whipped cream vodka. It's going to be great.
But before I go, there's a few quick taxi cab tales I'd like to share...
For the second time in my career as a cab driver a woman has described her sexual preference as "strictly dickly."
The local strip club had a benefit last night called "Tatas For Toys."
My two favorite lines this week were spoken by the same woman: "I ain't even gonna differential that shit!" and "what a nice cab! It smells nice and douched and everything!"
Be excellent to each other.
Anyways, I decided I wasn't going to wait for the bus so I decided to hoof it, and the hill wasn't so bad! Got to the video store and got some DVDs. They were free because I'm the shit. And walked back up the hill.
Now, after being off my feet for a few hours, my dogs are mush. My legs too. The cold weather is making my legs ache. Someone told me that's an early sign of arthritis. God, I hope not. That would stink. I like going on walks for an hour or more, but I haven't done it much in the last month or so. In fact, the only times I've gone walking for any extended amount of time happened on Thanksgiving, and that's mostly because my family's football-watching habits drove me out of my sisters' apartment. And because I like looking at attractive Asian ladies.
So my plan tonight is to kick back, watch some movies, and drink Diet Cherry Dr. Pepper and whipped cream vodka. It's going to be great.
But before I go, there's a few quick taxi cab tales I'd like to share...
For the second time in my career as a cab driver a woman has described her sexual preference as "strictly dickly."
The local strip club had a benefit last night called "Tatas For Toys."
My two favorite lines this week were spoken by the same woman: "I ain't even gonna differential that shit!" and "what a nice cab! It smells nice and douched and everything!"
Be excellent to each other.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
No sleep 'til...ever?
I'm a big fan of sleep. It really is one of my favorite activities. I used to get a lot of it. I would get at least eight hours of sleep a night and averaged nine to ten hours. It was awesome. These days (by "these days" I mean the last ten years or so) I get around six, occasionally seven. And when I get eight hours, holy shit! I'm in fucking heaven!
But for the last few weeks, or maybe it's months?, I get between five and six, sometimes as little as three or four, and it's not like I'm not trying here: there are usually seven to eight hours between when I turn off my lamp and whatever time I program into my phone's alarm clock. And I don't turn off the light until I can barely keep my eyes open. I turn my lamp off, and I'm soooooooooooooo tired, but then I'm alone save for my thoughts, and they won't be turned away. They hit me hard, and it's not pretty. These motherfucking thoughts swim around in my head, taunting me, making me toss and turn and dwell on them, causing me to wait another hour or two for sleepy time. Then...THEN...I wake up an hour or two before my alarm is set to go off. Why? Sometimes I wake up having to waz. Sometimes someone calls or texts me, violating the no-contact-with-Guak-before-noon-unless-it's-an-emergency rule. And sometimes my body or mind or both decides to wake my ass up for funsies.
And last night was no god damn exception. More bullshit thoughts to add to the towering pile of bullshit thoughts. And then waking up at 9:30 for other reason than for the fuck of it.
Maybe it's time to look into pharmaceutical assistance...
But for the last few weeks, or maybe it's months?, I get between five and six, sometimes as little as three or four, and it's not like I'm not trying here: there are usually seven to eight hours between when I turn off my lamp and whatever time I program into my phone's alarm clock. And I don't turn off the light until I can barely keep my eyes open. I turn my lamp off, and I'm soooooooooooooo tired, but then I'm alone save for my thoughts, and they won't be turned away. They hit me hard, and it's not pretty. These motherfucking thoughts swim around in my head, taunting me, making me toss and turn and dwell on them, causing me to wait another hour or two for sleepy time. Then...THEN...I wake up an hour or two before my alarm is set to go off. Why? Sometimes I wake up having to waz. Sometimes someone calls or texts me, violating the no-contact-with-Guak-before-noon-unless-it's-an-emergency rule. And sometimes my body or mind or both decides to wake my ass up for funsies.
And last night was no god damn exception. More bullshit thoughts to add to the towering pile of bullshit thoughts. And then waking up at 9:30 for other reason than for the fuck of it.
Maybe it's time to look into pharmaceutical assistance...
Monday, December 13, 2010
The Onset.
So...I've decided to try this World Wide Web log ("blog") thing another try. I had dabbled with the blogging dealie back in the halcyon days of MySpace, but I won't do that anymore because 1) who the hell messes with MySpace except for small local bands, and 2) it's been so long since I've logged on to MySpace I can no longer remember neither the email account I used nor the password (which proves my first point). This plan is to be more prolific with this one, which I've decided to call "Guak Talk" (or is it Guak Talk?), and to write whatever is rolling around in my head (because like every other asshole with a blog my opinion is oh-so-important).
I have no idea how this is going to go down. I'm going to try to not let laziness and/or a sudden lack of interest take over and have this thing die due to neglect. I'm also going to prevent this thing from failing before it even gets off the ground.
The rest of this premiere installment of "Guak Talk" (Guak Talk) is some sage-like advice I've gathered throughout my life (or what I thought up a few hours ago, scribbling this all down on a notepad in a bar).
AC/DC: love it. Live it.
It's not all that revelatory when a homophobic man says to another homophobic man "I want to touch that penis."
Though it's advised to be open about your thoughts and feelings, sometimes it's for the best to just suck it up and keep your mouth shut.
"I want to put those titties up in my guts" may not be the best pick-up line.
I would suggest not frequenting a bar that plays a lot of Bob Seger and The Steve Miller Band, but my Sunday night haunt plays both of them with mind-numbing regularity, and yet I still keep going back. Though the bartender has honored our gentlemanly agreement of not playing Stevie Ray Vaughn (with or without Double Trouble, I don't give a shit) while I'm there. And that was about three years ago.
Which brings me to my next and final pearl for the night: pick and choose your battles. For real. Getting worked up about every little thing you disagree with will only make you angry. And sad. And alone.
I have no idea how this is going to go down. I'm going to try to not let laziness and/or a sudden lack of interest take over and have this thing die due to neglect. I'm also going to prevent this thing from failing before it even gets off the ground.
The rest of this premiere installment of "Guak Talk" (Guak Talk) is some sage-like advice I've gathered throughout my life (or what I thought up a few hours ago, scribbling this all down on a notepad in a bar).
AC/DC: love it. Live it.
It's not all that revelatory when a homophobic man says to another homophobic man "I want to touch that penis."
Though it's advised to be open about your thoughts and feelings, sometimes it's for the best to just suck it up and keep your mouth shut.
"I want to put those titties up in my guts" may not be the best pick-up line.
I would suggest not frequenting a bar that plays a lot of Bob Seger and The Steve Miller Band, but my Sunday night haunt plays both of them with mind-numbing regularity, and yet I still keep going back. Though the bartender has honored our gentlemanly agreement of not playing Stevie Ray Vaughn (with or without Double Trouble, I don't give a shit) while I'm there. And that was about three years ago.
Which brings me to my next and final pearl for the night: pick and choose your battles. For real. Getting worked up about every little thing you disagree with will only make you angry. And sad. And alone.
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