A few weeks ago I suffered a one-two punch of financial crises.
On a Sunday I lost my wallet while playing with Bethlynne and The Boy Wonder at the Reiche Community School playground. The billfold contained the cash that I was going to use to procure a money order for my rent, which was due the next day.
To make matters worse, on the way to the landlord to drop off my roommates' rent orders and explain why we we're short I lost the envelope with said money orders.
In order to prevent eviction I ended up borrowing about $1200 from friends and family because my financial situation wasn't shitty enough I suffered the two worst profitable weeks in recent memory.
Things are looking up right now, but the task is still daunting.
To the amazing people that lent me money and to those that offered, but I didn't hit up, to those that would offer if they had to scratch to spare, and finally to those helped me in other ways in the forms of free alcohol or dinner or even their sympathy: thank you. I love you all.
I am a bit bummed out, though, that my parents have yet to call me to see if I escaped eviction.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Margot/Margaux/Margo
The following rant comes courtesy of Marg(ot/aux/o), sixty-eight years old, from the 7-11 on Congress to the Florence House on Valley...
"Around the corner you'll find all the bums, queerbies, and drug dealers. The bums will steal everything from you. I know because I used to volunteer at the soup kitchen. They stole everything from me. Even my car keys. So now they can always follow me. And they do. Five or six cars follow me at all times. I changed the chip in my car key, and they still follow me somehow. The bums would steal all my clothes. They would take my underwear and stockings, and I don't mean nylons. They would take my underwear and stockings and put them back in my drawer dirty and tattered. I get serum and sperm confused. Serum's in blood, right? (I nodded). I don't know why I thought sperm. I have nothing against sperm. Sperm is good as long as it's used to make babies or to make a man happy. Not for gay blades. Not for Catherine Whirley (I don't know who that is). Thanks for listening. God bless."
"Around the corner you'll find all the bums, queerbies, and drug dealers. The bums will steal everything from you. I know because I used to volunteer at the soup kitchen. They stole everything from me. Even my car keys. So now they can always follow me. And they do. Five or six cars follow me at all times. I changed the chip in my car key, and they still follow me somehow. The bums would steal all my clothes. They would take my underwear and stockings, and I don't mean nylons. They would take my underwear and stockings and put them back in my drawer dirty and tattered. I get serum and sperm confused. Serum's in blood, right? (I nodded). I don't know why I thought sperm. I have nothing against sperm. Sperm is good as long as it's used to make babies or to make a man happy. Not for gay blades. Not for Catherine Whirley (I don't know who that is). Thanks for listening. God bless."
Sunday, October 9, 2011
Joey
Thursday night I was parked at my usual perch in front of Paul's Food Center writing a chapter of The Ballad Of Harry Guakomoli (shameless plug!). It was around 11:30. A drunk old man with a guitar asked if he could get a ride. I told him to get in.
On the way to the Gulf station on Congress to buy some cheap wine he introduced himself as Joey. Joey had just left Lincoln Park, specifically the Occupy Maine tent city. He had hoped to get smoked up and play his guitar. He was "devastated" that neither of those things happened.
We pulled up to the Gulf, and Joey had just stepped out of the cab when he was approached by a young woman. She asked him to go in and purchase a $3 pipe "for a friend" because she didn't have an ID. Joey was torn; he wanted to help her out, but he didn't want to be "implicated." He mentioned something about her asking me, so she told me her sob story. I told her I wasn't going to buy her a pipe. The lady, who was obviously the crackhead who needed the pipe, informed me Joey just wanted my opinion.
"Sure, I don't give a shit" was my response.
Joey went into the store. Lady Crackhead took the time to tell me she wasn't a crackhead; she merely likes to smoke crack from time to time. And who is he to judge? He's a drunk.
The drunk in question exited the store and handed her back the money. He said something about saving her soul. "Fuck you, faggot!" she screamed at Joey before asking me to go in for her. "I already told you I wasn't buying you shit." Then the owner of the Gulf station came out and kicked her off the premises.
Before I go any further I'm going to go off on a bit of a tangent. Grown men who introduce themselves as "Joey." Really? You're an adult. Have some fucking self-respect. You're not a kid so drop the kid name. The only adult that can go by "Joey" is Joey Lauren Adams. No one else. NO. ONE. ELSE. You hear me, Lawrence and Gamache?
Joey got back in the cab and immediately cracked open the nasty way-too-fruity-smelling bottle of cheap wine. I know the consumption of alcohol in a motor vehicle is verboten, but I often allow it. He went on about not wanting to have anything to do with a crackhead's addiction. I can dig that. Joey asked me if I smoked grass. I told him I didn't do that anymore.
I drove me him to the Union Station Plaza parking lot, and Joey offered a business proposition: he drinks his vile wine until the meter hits $10, I get a $5 tip, and I give him back $5 from the $20 bill he gave me to show he wasn't "schemin'" me. I agreed to the deal.
I should have known better. But I'm a sucker for a story. That and I suspect I may be a masochist. Joey spun me a yarn, and I'm confident I got his words (mostly) right. The spirit is at least preserved:
"I've been to prison. I did nine years for armed robbery because I was a junkie. My old lady would smuggle me in cocaine. I wouldn't sell it. Just a little bit for me to use. One time she visited and told me she set the house on fire for the insurance money. She got $40,000. Then she moved to PR. Puerto Rico. That's where she was born, Puerto Rico. She got involved in trafficking and got shot. My sister's a millionaire and flew my wife to Laguardia so she could see our daughter before she died. And she did. That's why I have nothing to do with narcotics."
And then Joey belched and the smell of sickly sweet fortified wine mixed with the faint aroma of stomach acid made me gag a little.
At that point the meter was at $10.60. He offered me another $20 if I would let him finish the bottle. While it was guaranteed money, I had enough of Joey. I told him it was time we parted ways. Joey didn't like that idea. He said he had $100, and since I smoked marijuana, I should use that money to score him some pot. I informed him that I had told him I no longer smoke it. Joey told told me he had the money and would prove it. I responded by telling him I didn't care if he had it. Yet he still dug through the contents of his pockets until he could back up his claim. Well, I really didn't care if he had the cash and proved my claim by letting him know if he didn't get out I would drive to the police station, and the cops could yank his ass out.
Joey finally got the message that I was not fucking around. He told me to give him the $5 in change coming to him. I informed him that the meter was still running because he was taking up my time AND promised me a $5 tip so he was only going to get back $2. He accused me of "schemin'" and said to just let him get his stuff out of the back seat. While that was happening we had one last conversation:
JOEY: You don't know who I am, man. In prison I was protected by the New York mob.
GUAK: I don't give a fuck who you are. Get your fucking shit and go.
J: Don't call it "shit," man.
G: I'm sorry for calling it "shit." Get your fucking stuff and go.
J: What's in this bag is worth a lot of money. And it's not narcotics.
G: Don't care.
J: It's intellectual knowledge. Do you know what "NSA" stands for? "National Security Administration." The NSA is following me because of what's in this bag.
G: Will you just fucking shut my door?
And, finally, Joey did fucking shut my door. And I drove away.
The first thing Joey said to me when he got in the cab was "what's up with all the Portland cab drivers? No one wanted to give me a ride." I found out why the hard way.
On the way to the Gulf station on Congress to buy some cheap wine he introduced himself as Joey. Joey had just left Lincoln Park, specifically the Occupy Maine tent city. He had hoped to get smoked up and play his guitar. He was "devastated" that neither of those things happened.
We pulled up to the Gulf, and Joey had just stepped out of the cab when he was approached by a young woman. She asked him to go in and purchase a $3 pipe "for a friend" because she didn't have an ID. Joey was torn; he wanted to help her out, but he didn't want to be "implicated." He mentioned something about her asking me, so she told me her sob story. I told her I wasn't going to buy her a pipe. The lady, who was obviously the crackhead who needed the pipe, informed me Joey just wanted my opinion.
"Sure, I don't give a shit" was my response.
Joey went into the store. Lady Crackhead took the time to tell me she wasn't a crackhead; she merely likes to smoke crack from time to time. And who is he to judge? He's a drunk.
The drunk in question exited the store and handed her back the money. He said something about saving her soul. "Fuck you, faggot!" she screamed at Joey before asking me to go in for her. "I already told you I wasn't buying you shit." Then the owner of the Gulf station came out and kicked her off the premises.
Before I go any further I'm going to go off on a bit of a tangent. Grown men who introduce themselves as "Joey." Really? You're an adult. Have some fucking self-respect. You're not a kid so drop the kid name. The only adult that can go by "Joey" is Joey Lauren Adams. No one else. NO. ONE. ELSE. You hear me, Lawrence and Gamache?
Joey got back in the cab and immediately cracked open the nasty way-too-fruity-smelling bottle of cheap wine. I know the consumption of alcohol in a motor vehicle is verboten, but I often allow it. He went on about not wanting to have anything to do with a crackhead's addiction. I can dig that. Joey asked me if I smoked grass. I told him I didn't do that anymore.
I drove me him to the Union Station Plaza parking lot, and Joey offered a business proposition: he drinks his vile wine until the meter hits $10, I get a $5 tip, and I give him back $5 from the $20 bill he gave me to show he wasn't "schemin'" me. I agreed to the deal.
I should have known better. But I'm a sucker for a story. That and I suspect I may be a masochist. Joey spun me a yarn, and I'm confident I got his words (mostly) right. The spirit is at least preserved:
"I've been to prison. I did nine years for armed robbery because I was a junkie. My old lady would smuggle me in cocaine. I wouldn't sell it. Just a little bit for me to use. One time she visited and told me she set the house on fire for the insurance money. She got $40,000. Then she moved to PR. Puerto Rico. That's where she was born, Puerto Rico. She got involved in trafficking and got shot. My sister's a millionaire and flew my wife to Laguardia so she could see our daughter before she died. And she did. That's why I have nothing to do with narcotics."
And then Joey belched and the smell of sickly sweet fortified wine mixed with the faint aroma of stomach acid made me gag a little.
At that point the meter was at $10.60. He offered me another $20 if I would let him finish the bottle. While it was guaranteed money, I had enough of Joey. I told him it was time we parted ways. Joey didn't like that idea. He said he had $100, and since I smoked marijuana, I should use that money to score him some pot. I informed him that I had told him I no longer smoke it. Joey told told me he had the money and would prove it. I responded by telling him I didn't care if he had it. Yet he still dug through the contents of his pockets until he could back up his claim. Well, I really didn't care if he had the cash and proved my claim by letting him know if he didn't get out I would drive to the police station, and the cops could yank his ass out.
Joey finally got the message that I was not fucking around. He told me to give him the $5 in change coming to him. I informed him that the meter was still running because he was taking up my time AND promised me a $5 tip so he was only going to get back $2. He accused me of "schemin'" and said to just let him get his stuff out of the back seat. While that was happening we had one last conversation:
JOEY: You don't know who I am, man. In prison I was protected by the New York mob.
GUAK: I don't give a fuck who you are. Get your fucking shit and go.
J: Don't call it "shit," man.
G: I'm sorry for calling it "shit." Get your fucking stuff and go.
J: What's in this bag is worth a lot of money. And it's not narcotics.
G: Don't care.
J: It's intellectual knowledge. Do you know what "NSA" stands for? "National Security Administration." The NSA is following me because of what's in this bag.
G: Will you just fucking shut my door?
And, finally, Joey did fucking shut my door. And I drove away.
The first thing Joey said to me when he got in the cab was "what's up with all the Portland cab drivers? No one wanted to give me a ride." I found out why the hard way.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
H. Guakomoli: Book Critic?
My friend Clay runs a music review website (which you should all check out by the way - it's quite good). On August 18th he asked me if I would be up for critiquing a biography on The Stooges. I happily agreed to review the book - I love The Stooges, and I thought it would be a good exercise for me.
I was given a loose deadline of "some time in September." Well, I am a procrastinator by nature (not 'cause I hate cha), so of course I didn't start really reading it until last Saturday. I finished it Tuesday, wrote the rough draft in my cab that night, and typed, revised, and proofread the fucker Wednesday morning. I submitted it with two days to spare!
It was the first thing I've officially reviewed since waaaaaay back in the spring of 1998 when I reviewed a Dick Dale show at The Asylum for my college newspaper. Sure, I have done some rants on things that I suppose amount to reviews but nothing for any publication. I think it turned out rather well for really not knowing what I was doing. I wish I had liked the book, and I am a bit concerned that my analysis was too harsh. Overall, though, I am pleased.
Said book review can be found here.
And, seriously, check out Nanobot Rock Reviews!
In other writing news, I'm back to working on my serial, The Ballad Of Harry Guakomoli. If have yet to read it, please be a pal and start from the beginning: The Ballad Of Harry Guakomoli.
SPOILER ALERT! And if you haven't read my tale of the man who shares a name with my nom de plume since it seemed like the story's protagonist met his untimely demise, I assure you that is not the end of the yarn! You can catch up by starting here.
END SPOILERS!
And my intent is to be more prolific in my GuakTalk ramblings.
For fuck's sake go visit Nanobot now!
I was given a loose deadline of "some time in September." Well, I am a procrastinator by nature (not 'cause I hate cha), so of course I didn't start really reading it until last Saturday. I finished it Tuesday, wrote the rough draft in my cab that night, and typed, revised, and proofread the fucker Wednesday morning. I submitted it with two days to spare!
It was the first thing I've officially reviewed since waaaaaay back in the spring of 1998 when I reviewed a Dick Dale show at The Asylum for my college newspaper. Sure, I have done some rants on things that I suppose amount to reviews but nothing for any publication. I think it turned out rather well for really not knowing what I was doing. I wish I had liked the book, and I am a bit concerned that my analysis was too harsh. Overall, though, I am pleased.
Said book review can be found here.
And, seriously, check out Nanobot Rock Reviews!
In other writing news, I'm back to working on my serial, The Ballad Of Harry Guakomoli. If have yet to read it, please be a pal and start from the beginning: The Ballad Of Harry Guakomoli.
SPOILER ALERT! And if you haven't read my tale of the man who shares a name with my nom de plume since it seemed like the story's protagonist met his untimely demise, I assure you that is not the end of the yarn! You can catch up by starting here.
END SPOILERS!
And my intent is to be more prolific in my GuakTalk ramblings.
For fuck's sake go visit Nanobot now!
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Son Of Taxi Bits And Pieces!
I thought I had found the woman of my dreams Thursday night. I had picked her up, along with four others, in the West End, She started a conversation with her friends about the zombie apocalypse and was a fan of The Walking Dead. Not the TV show, but the comic book. Wowie zowie!
Then the gal sang along to AC/DC's "It's A Long Way To The Top." Mama mia!
But then came the first test of our relationship. Once the fare had been paid, we had a brief interaction...
LADY: Thank you. You are a lovely gentleman.
GUAK: You're a lovely gentleman.
LADY (glaring): I am NOT a gentleman.
GUAK: My mistake.
The love affair was over. If you can't take a joke I have no use for you. Take a hike, sister! Oh, well. Blondes typically don't do it for me anyhow.
I drove a deaf woman to work at Bugaboo Creek. Her name badge stated her name was "Pattie Sue" though I know for a fact it's Judith.
Not so long ago I was stiffed out of my money by a member of the Maine State Legislature.
"I get ten Cinemax channels for $13.95 a month. From midnight to eight they show nothing but tits and ass movies. I used to buy a porno once a month for $14. Not anymore!" - my octogenarian regular
While parked in front of Gritty's a proprietor of a local business hopped into Black Betty. After a bit of driving around we found ourselves parked in the Denny's parking lot, where he proceeded to roll a joint. Nearing the end of the inexplicably long process he stated it was time to "add the salt." I soon discovered what he was referring to when he tossed an itty bitty plastic bag out the window and declared "that's the end of the crack!"
I really need to stop getting into these situations that are, at best, in this weird legal gray area merely for the story. And money.
Someone told me a "freddie" is a joint dusted with crack, but according to Urban Dictionary it's slang for heroin. Any street druggists out there that can clarify this for me?
Then the gal sang along to AC/DC's "It's A Long Way To The Top." Mama mia!
But then came the first test of our relationship. Once the fare had been paid, we had a brief interaction...
LADY: Thank you. You are a lovely gentleman.
GUAK: You're a lovely gentleman.
LADY (glaring): I am NOT a gentleman.
GUAK: My mistake.
The love affair was over. If you can't take a joke I have no use for you. Take a hike, sister! Oh, well. Blondes typically don't do it for me anyhow.
I drove a deaf woman to work at Bugaboo Creek. Her name badge stated her name was "Pattie Sue" though I know for a fact it's Judith.
Not so long ago I was stiffed out of my money by a member of the Maine State Legislature.
"I get ten Cinemax channels for $13.95 a month. From midnight to eight they show nothing but tits and ass movies. I used to buy a porno once a month for $14. Not anymore!" - my octogenarian regular
While parked in front of Gritty's a proprietor of a local business hopped into Black Betty. After a bit of driving around we found ourselves parked in the Denny's parking lot, where he proceeded to roll a joint. Nearing the end of the inexplicably long process he stated it was time to "add the salt." I soon discovered what he was referring to when he tossed an itty bitty plastic bag out the window and declared "that's the end of the crack!"
I really need to stop getting into these situations that are, at best, in this weird legal gray area merely for the story. And money.
Someone told me a "freddie" is a joint dusted with crack, but according to Urban Dictionary it's slang for heroin. Any street druggists out there that can clarify this for me?
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Sitar Back and Relax
Every week day 100.9 FM, the oldies station, has a feature called The Fab Four At Four (or "F4@4" as I refer to in texts to Bethlynne). As the name implies, the segment is a collection of four Beatles or Beatles-related songs at four o'clock (though in reality the block doesn't start until 4:10). I always lament that the F4@4 is only fifteen minutes long or so as they were my favorite band for a long long time, and I'm still a fan of the Liverpudlian quartet.
Much to my irritation, yesterday's installment actually started on time so I missed the first half. Fuckers. I'm assuming August 8th is an important date in the life of Ravi Shankar or some shit because the songs I heard, "Within You Without You" and "Tomorrow Never Knows" are both heavy on the sitar and I am willing to bet the first two utilized that instrument as well.
The reason I'm even bothering you with this shit (other than the fact it's been around three weeks since I posted a GuakTalk entry) is that when I changed the station from some horrible Steve Miller song (redundant, I know) to F4@4 my passengers were two Indian guys. You know, the kind of Indian that hails from India.
I found that funny.
Much to my irritation, yesterday's installment actually started on time so I missed the first half. Fuckers. I'm assuming August 8th is an important date in the life of Ravi Shankar or some shit because the songs I heard, "Within You Without You" and "Tomorrow Never Knows" are both heavy on the sitar and I am willing to bet the first two utilized that instrument as well.
The reason I'm even bothering you with this shit (other than the fact it's been around three weeks since I posted a GuakTalk entry) is that when I changed the station from some horrible Steve Miller song (redundant, I know) to F4@4 my passengers were two Indian guys. You know, the kind of Indian that hails from India.
I found that funny.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
The End Of An Era?
Brian Boru Public House has been my Sunday night destination for close to ten years now. The number of times that I don't visit Brian's House on Sunday in any given year I can count on one hand, usually due to being out of town or simply being broke. Or that one time Phish came to town, and I was forced to move my birthday party to Ruski's (yet another reason why Trey Anastasio can eat shit and die).
The main draw for me is the Irish and English beers they sell for cheap: pints of Guiness, Harp, Bass, and Smithwick's (not to mention Black and Tans and Half and Halfs (Blacks and Tans, Half and Halves?)) for only $3. When I first started going to there they were only $2 a pop BUT STILL! $3! That's some fucking deal!
The usual crew has been swindled over the years. Jimmy quit, and Jodi got married. Nowadays it's usually just Rob and me, and sometimes Regan and/or Teddy. Throughout the years the bartenders have taken care of me, and I've taken care of them, starting with Roger and Paul and up to, and including, the current pourers of brew, Chris and Whitney. I love outside drinking, and their two decks ensure I can sit down and do just that. And maybe, just maybe, I enjoy the bouquet of stale beer mixed with the subtle aroma of vomit.
But that may be changing. A little over a month ago Boru's weekly open mic night moved from Mondays to Sundays. I FUCKING HATE OPEN MIC NIGHTS. I just want to go and talk with my friends over some beer. I don't want to hear some asshole play "Wish You Were Here" or "Karma Police." The open mic night at Brian's isn't as bad, mostly because very few people get up to perform, leaving the emcee, Brendan, to do most of the heavy lifting. I like Brendan (who also works there as a doorman), and his interesting takes on Sabbath and Zeppelin songs usually aren't vomit-inducing. But, like I previously mentioned , I have very clear reasons why I go to Brian Boru on Sunday nights, AND A FUCKING OPEN MIC NIGHT IS NOT ONE OF THEM.
It wasn't all that bad: he played inside, we drank and talked outside. Bearable. But Rob and I posed to ourselves a damn good question: what happens in October when it's too cold to be outside? Do we suck it up, or do we go elsewhere? We both came to the same conclusion that maybe finding another place to go, when the time comes, is our best option.
But it got worse last Sunday. He moved open mic to outside! Nooooooooo! And, AND, to make things worse, Brendan played "Ace Of Spades!" Oh, fuck no! There are two reasons why no one should ever, EVER, cover that song. One, as one of the greatest songs ever written and performed it's bordering on sacrilege. And two, every cover of "Ace Of Spades" sounds like fucking shit. That's science fact, brother (or sister, depending who you are, dear reader)!
So, now I have a more immediate dilemma: do I suck it up and have my ears poisoned so I can enjoy these nice summer nights with beer at the bar that I've been patronizing nearly every Sunday FOR A DECADE, do I spend the nights inside at the bar and deal with the heat (Brian's House does not have air-conditioning), or do I go somewhere else?
I am really really torn. I don't know what to do.
The main draw for me is the Irish and English beers they sell for cheap: pints of Guiness, Harp, Bass, and Smithwick's (not to mention Black and Tans and Half and Halfs (Blacks and Tans, Half and Halves?)) for only $3. When I first started going to there they were only $2 a pop BUT STILL! $3! That's some fucking deal!
The usual crew has been swindled over the years. Jimmy quit, and Jodi got married. Nowadays it's usually just Rob and me, and sometimes Regan and/or Teddy. Throughout the years the bartenders have taken care of me, and I've taken care of them, starting with Roger and Paul and up to, and including, the current pourers of brew, Chris and Whitney. I love outside drinking, and their two decks ensure I can sit down and do just that. And maybe, just maybe, I enjoy the bouquet of stale beer mixed with the subtle aroma of vomit.
But that may be changing. A little over a month ago Boru's weekly open mic night moved from Mondays to Sundays. I FUCKING HATE OPEN MIC NIGHTS. I just want to go and talk with my friends over some beer. I don't want to hear some asshole play "Wish You Were Here" or "Karma Police." The open mic night at Brian's isn't as bad, mostly because very few people get up to perform, leaving the emcee, Brendan, to do most of the heavy lifting. I like Brendan (who also works there as a doorman), and his interesting takes on Sabbath and Zeppelin songs usually aren't vomit-inducing. But, like I previously mentioned , I have very clear reasons why I go to Brian Boru on Sunday nights, AND A FUCKING OPEN MIC NIGHT IS NOT ONE OF THEM.
It wasn't all that bad: he played inside, we drank and talked outside. Bearable. But Rob and I posed to ourselves a damn good question: what happens in October when it's too cold to be outside? Do we suck it up, or do we go elsewhere? We both came to the same conclusion that maybe finding another place to go, when the time comes, is our best option.
But it got worse last Sunday. He moved open mic to outside! Nooooooooo! And, AND, to make things worse, Brendan played "Ace Of Spades!" Oh, fuck no! There are two reasons why no one should ever, EVER, cover that song. One, as one of the greatest songs ever written and performed it's bordering on sacrilege. And two, every cover of "Ace Of Spades" sounds like fucking shit. That's science fact, brother (or sister, depending who you are, dear reader)!
So, now I have a more immediate dilemma: do I suck it up and have my ears poisoned so I can enjoy these nice summer nights with beer at the bar that I've been patronizing nearly every Sunday FOR A DECADE, do I spend the nights inside at the bar and deal with the heat (Brian's House does not have air-conditioning), or do I go somewhere else?
I am really really torn. I don't know what to do.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
I Was Screwed Over By A Poop-Faced Man
Monday just before midnight a bald drunk man jumped into my cab while it was parked, with me in it, at the taxi stand in front of Paul's Food Center, the leper colony at Congress Square. The job was to drive him to the airport, pick up his wife, and drop them both at their place. This pleased me greatly: my night was dreadfully slow, and if this guy didn't tip it was still at least a $25 fare.
We arrived at the Portland International Jetport (what is up with the name?!), and he asked me not to leave him alone with the missus. I believe the quote was "I'm poop-faced. She'll fucking kill me, but she won't if you're there?" What the fuck was I getting myself into?
The guy goes in looking for his wife, while I hang out in front of the baggage claim entrance; as a hack I'm not allowed to leave the cab parked unattended. He once again made me promise to leave him, and I said I wouldn't: I had to make sure I got paid. He guaranteed me I would get my money.
I gave the man fifteen minutes before I started charging him for waiting time. I'm not a hard-ass when it comes to that stuff. Some drivers will hit the "time off" button the second the passenger steps out of the cab (which is his or her legal right). I find a lot of people get pissy and won't tip if I "run time" on them. So I usually give some leeway. Unless they're regular customers that don't tip then fuck 'em: I get paid to wait.
I waited almost another fifteen minutes, and I had no clue where the dude was so I had him paged. He emerged. My fare had no idea why his wife had not arrived yet. I informed him it was much cheaper for him to pay me and grab another cab when he was ready than it was for him to have me wait. He guaranteed he would take care of me.
About ten minutes later, right before 1am, he came back after another disappearance. I told him I had waited long enough, the meter was up to close to $32, and I had to go. It was then that the drunk dickhead revealed he had no money, and his wife had to pay. I told him she had better show up or his ass was going to jail.
A TSA agent was observing the conversation. He asked for the man's ID and his lady's name and left to check on her status. The agent came back a few minutes later to say the missus had missed her flight in Atlanta. I was livid. I had wasted over an hour on this jackass. I wanted the paper owed to me. I called the cops for theft of service.
Two police officers, a man and a woman, showed up at the airport about ten minutes later. They run the fucker's license and hear his tale.
The guy had been drinking at Rockin' Rickey's all night. He lived in Lewiston, and I'm not sure how he got to Portland. And he was out on bail (for what I do not know).
I was asked if I wanted to press charges. I really just wanted my money. Yours truly did not want to send a guy to jail over $40, even if it sounded like he was an unsavory fellow before the incident. So I caved and decided to give the guy a week to pay me. But even if he doesn't I won't press charges. It sounds like a colossal pain in the ass for me over a few bucks that might take me FOREVER to get. The male cop didn't seem to like my plan: "he's out on bail so we already know what kind of character we're dealing with here" and shit like that. He obviously wanted to cuff 'im and stuff 'im. But it was my call to make. Because even though the "perp" was a drunk who never bothered to confirm his wife was even on the fucking plane, he struck me as a nice guy who merely fucked up.
So the cops instructed him that he had to a week to send me a money order or they will arrest him and charge him for theft of service. I appreciated how they lied and threatened him for me.
I might be proof that there's a sucker born every minute. I'm hoping I get my money, but I doubt I ever will.
We arrived at the Portland International Jetport (what is up with the name?!), and he asked me not to leave him alone with the missus. I believe the quote was "I'm poop-faced. She'll fucking kill me, but she won't if you're there?" What the fuck was I getting myself into?
The guy goes in looking for his wife, while I hang out in front of the baggage claim entrance; as a hack I'm not allowed to leave the cab parked unattended. He once again made me promise to leave him, and I said I wouldn't: I had to make sure I got paid. He guaranteed me I would get my money.
I gave the man fifteen minutes before I started charging him for waiting time. I'm not a hard-ass when it comes to that stuff. Some drivers will hit the "time off" button the second the passenger steps out of the cab (which is his or her legal right). I find a lot of people get pissy and won't tip if I "run time" on them. So I usually give some leeway. Unless they're regular customers that don't tip then fuck 'em: I get paid to wait.
I waited almost another fifteen minutes, and I had no clue where the dude was so I had him paged. He emerged. My fare had no idea why his wife had not arrived yet. I informed him it was much cheaper for him to pay me and grab another cab when he was ready than it was for him to have me wait. He guaranteed he would take care of me.
About ten minutes later, right before 1am, he came back after another disappearance. I told him I had waited long enough, the meter was up to close to $32, and I had to go. It was then that the drunk dickhead revealed he had no money, and his wife had to pay. I told him she had better show up or his ass was going to jail.
A TSA agent was observing the conversation. He asked for the man's ID and his lady's name and left to check on her status. The agent came back a few minutes later to say the missus had missed her flight in Atlanta. I was livid. I had wasted over an hour on this jackass. I wanted the paper owed to me. I called the cops for theft of service.
Two police officers, a man and a woman, showed up at the airport about ten minutes later. They run the fucker's license and hear his tale.
The guy had been drinking at Rockin' Rickey's all night. He lived in Lewiston, and I'm not sure how he got to Portland. And he was out on bail (for what I do not know).
I was asked if I wanted to press charges. I really just wanted my money. Yours truly did not want to send a guy to jail over $40, even if it sounded like he was an unsavory fellow before the incident. So I caved and decided to give the guy a week to pay me. But even if he doesn't I won't press charges. It sounds like a colossal pain in the ass for me over a few bucks that might take me FOREVER to get. The male cop didn't seem to like my plan: "he's out on bail so we already know what kind of character we're dealing with here" and shit like that. He obviously wanted to cuff 'im and stuff 'im. But it was my call to make. Because even though the "perp" was a drunk who never bothered to confirm his wife was even on the fucking plane, he struck me as a nice guy who merely fucked up.
So the cops instructed him that he had to a week to send me a money order or they will arrest him and charge him for theft of service. I appreciated how they lied and threatened him for me.
I might be proof that there's a sucker born every minute. I'm hoping I get my money, but I doubt I ever will.
Friday, July 8, 2011
La France Aime Le Guak?
After publishing my last installment, "Music To My Ears," I decided out the readership statistics for GuakTalk.
For the past week or so my readership has averaged around forty-five hits a day. Sa-weeeet! It's reassuring that more and more people are checking out my world wide web log. While the handful of you that consistently read my stuff are fantastic (and I am eternally grateful to boot!), most of you I can relate these things to you in person since I see you face-to-face on a regular basis. So new blood is appreciated, particularly the blood of total strangers.
Upon closer inspection I noticed most of that traffic is coming from France. France? The only people I know living in France are my close friends Johnny Depp and Robert Crumb, and they both have told me repeatedly that I can take my infrequent mildly amusing musings and shove them up my derriere.
So what gives? In the past month 158 of my hits have originated from the United States. 222 were from our Revolutionary War saviors from across The Pond, and 220 of those were from the past week. Sacre bleu! Did something happen? "A Fond Farewell, Fort Bitchin'" was the only thing I published last week, and I can't find anything France-related in that post.
Is this some error? I ask you my French brothers and sisters, if you are out there could you please leave me a comment here or drop me a line at strutting_guak@yahoo.com? I'm incredibly curious as to what you find appealing, and how you across GuakTalk in the first place.
And if you like fiction in small easily digestible chunks may I suggest my serial, The Ballad Of Harry Guakomoli. This suggestion is directed to the rest of ya as well.
Before I sign off, I would like to thank Sofia for translating the title of this post for me; I am afraid my knowledge of the French language is limited to fromage, croissanwich, and Dave Coulier.
For the past week or so my readership has averaged around forty-five hits a day. Sa-weeeet! It's reassuring that more and more people are checking out my world wide web log. While the handful of you that consistently read my stuff are fantastic (and I am eternally grateful to boot!), most of you I can relate these things to you in person since I see you face-to-face on a regular basis. So new blood is appreciated, particularly the blood of total strangers.
Upon closer inspection I noticed most of that traffic is coming from France. France? The only people I know living in France are my close friends Johnny Depp and Robert Crumb, and they both have told me repeatedly that I can take my infrequent mildly amusing musings and shove them up my derriere.
So what gives? In the past month 158 of my hits have originated from the United States. 222 were from our Revolutionary War saviors from across The Pond, and 220 of those were from the past week. Sacre bleu! Did something happen? "A Fond Farewell, Fort Bitchin'" was the only thing I published last week, and I can't find anything France-related in that post.
Is this some error? I ask you my French brothers and sisters, if you are out there could you please leave me a comment here or drop me a line at strutting_guak@yahoo.com? I'm incredibly curious as to what you find appealing, and how you across GuakTalk in the first place.
And if you like fiction in small easily digestible chunks may I suggest my serial, The Ballad Of Harry Guakomoli. This suggestion is directed to the rest of ya as well.
Before I sign off, I would like to thank Sofia for translating the title of this post for me; I am afraid my knowledge of the French language is limited to fromage, croissanwich, and Dave Coulier.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Music To My Ears
I had some time to kill earlier today so I decided to do some laundry. There were a few guys doing some work on the building next door, and they were rocking out to Creed. God, I hate Creed.
Scott Stapp's brand of shitty Bible-thumping "rock" reminded me what I might encounter at the Washboard laundromat. It seems whenever I go in there lately the same older lady with the funny accent was working, and her music is fucking atrocious. A few weeks ago her musical choice was The Coast 93.1 FM. Easy-listening ear poison. The week after it was the fucking Eagles. And last week it was today's hot country. It's a good thing I'm a firm opponent of concealed handguns because otherwise the lady may have had to clean my blood, brains, and skull fragments off of the bedding she had just laundered.
But on my way to the Washboard I saw the lady walking down Clark street away from the laundromat. score! Then I crossed my fingers hoping it wasn't the grumpy guy working.
And it wasn't the grumpy guy! The blonde cutie with the glasses who I haven't seen in months was manning the station. This pleased me mightily. The last time I was there while she was working she played The Rise And Fall Of Ziggy Stardust And The Spiders From Mars. This time around I was welcomed by the sweet sounds of Elvis Costello. He was followed by Nirvana Unplugged. Ahhhhhhhhh...
I left the Washboard content having spent a little over an hour in aural bliss. On the way back to Fort Awesome the construction guys were blasting Matchbox 20. Fuck.
Scott Stapp's brand of shitty Bible-thumping "rock" reminded me what I might encounter at the Washboard laundromat. It seems whenever I go in there lately the same older lady with the funny accent was working, and her music is fucking atrocious. A few weeks ago her musical choice was The Coast 93.1 FM. Easy-listening ear poison. The week after it was the fucking Eagles. And last week it was today's hot country. It's a good thing I'm a firm opponent of concealed handguns because otherwise the lady may have had to clean my blood, brains, and skull fragments off of the bedding she had just laundered.
But on my way to the Washboard I saw the lady walking down Clark street away from the laundromat. score! Then I crossed my fingers hoping it wasn't the grumpy guy working.
And it wasn't the grumpy guy! The blonde cutie with the glasses who I haven't seen in months was manning the station. This pleased me mightily. The last time I was there while she was working she played The Rise And Fall Of Ziggy Stardust And The Spiders From Mars. This time around I was welcomed by the sweet sounds of Elvis Costello. He was followed by Nirvana Unplugged. Ahhhhhhhhh...
I left the Washboard content having spent a little over an hour in aural bliss. On the way back to Fort Awesome the construction guys were blasting Matchbox 20. Fuck.
Friday, July 1, 2011
A Fond Farewell, Fort Bitchin'
For the last year and a half I had been fortunate enough to have three fantastic neighbors: Bethlynne, Sofia, and the only child I have ever really taken a shine to.
I use the past tense because of yesterday at noon they have ceased to live across the hall from me.
Yours truly was considering expounding on why these three were the best neighbors this fella has ever...EVER...had, but I think I'm going to keep my pleasant memories to myself.
Though they are still part of my life, their super-close proximity will be surely, and sorely, missed.
To my former Lady Neighbors and The Coolest Baby In The USA: I miss ya already.
I use the past tense because of yesterday at noon they have ceased to live across the hall from me.
Yours truly was considering expounding on why these three were the best neighbors this fella has ever...EVER...had, but I think I'm going to keep my pleasant memories to myself.
Though they are still part of my life, their super-close proximity will be surely, and sorely, missed.
To my former Lady Neighbors and The Coolest Baby In The USA: I miss ya already.
Friday, June 17, 2011
Guak The Narc
While I was at Ruski's this past Saturday night I got a text from Bethlynne: there was a party going on in our building, and they were keeping her up. In addition, the revelers woke up The Coolest Baby In The USA. Fuckers.
I already knew there was a party underway, thrown by the ladies from the first floor. I'm pretty sure it was to celebrate the birthday of the girl who on Memorial Day had drunkenly called me "The Infamous Guak" and gave me a long hug.
Bethlynne texted me again to tell me she had shut the window and hopefully that would do the trick. Apparently it did because I didn't hear from her for the rest of the night.
But about twenty minutes later I got a text from Sofia about how loud the fucking party was. The problem was that they were hanging out on the stoop. About thirty of them.
I found that out firsthand when I walked past the building at around 2am. Rob wanted to walk to Cumberland Farms. I had no need for Cumby's, having purchased a bag of chips earlier in the evening as a preemptive strike. But I decided to accompany nonetheless.
I saw the loud bullshit going on and got as far as Reiche when I decided to call the cops. So I did. I gave the dispatcher my name and phone number. She asked me if I wanted to make a statement. I told her I did not, but I would if it was necessary. The dispatcher informed that it probably wouldn't be.
The cops didn't take long getting there. I was talking nerdy things with the cashier when I looked out the the window and noticed two cruisers driving up Pine Street and turning left towards the direction of my building.
Walking back I noticed a slow but steady stream of youngsters make its way out of the building and soon enough it was quiet as a mouse. I felt quite the feeling of accomplishment.
Part of me though wonders if it's a sign of me getting older. I had at least ten years on the average person at that party. Yet, truth be told, the party probably wouldn't have bothered me so much. My work demands that I stay up way into the wee hours of the morn, and even on my days off it's rare that I'm asleep before three. If those kids were going strong at that hour I reckon I could have drowned out the noise with my fan No, the fact is I did it for the ladies and Boy Wonder of Fort Bitchin' - I'm rather fond of that triad of awesomeness. And I was rather miffed that they were being kept awake by a slew of raucous celebrants.
That was the first time I ever ratted someone out to the cops. I guess that makes me a narc, and I would do it again.
I already knew there was a party underway, thrown by the ladies from the first floor. I'm pretty sure it was to celebrate the birthday of the girl who on Memorial Day had drunkenly called me "The Infamous Guak" and gave me a long hug.
Bethlynne texted me again to tell me she had shut the window and hopefully that would do the trick. Apparently it did because I didn't hear from her for the rest of the night.
But about twenty minutes later I got a text from Sofia about how loud the fucking party was. The problem was that they were hanging out on the stoop. About thirty of them.
I found that out firsthand when I walked past the building at around 2am. Rob wanted to walk to Cumberland Farms. I had no need for Cumby's, having purchased a bag of chips earlier in the evening as a preemptive strike. But I decided to accompany nonetheless.
I saw the loud bullshit going on and got as far as Reiche when I decided to call the cops. So I did. I gave the dispatcher my name and phone number. She asked me if I wanted to make a statement. I told her I did not, but I would if it was necessary. The dispatcher informed that it probably wouldn't be.
The cops didn't take long getting there. I was talking nerdy things with the cashier when I looked out the the window and noticed two cruisers driving up Pine Street and turning left towards the direction of my building.
Walking back I noticed a slow but steady stream of youngsters make its way out of the building and soon enough it was quiet as a mouse. I felt quite the feeling of accomplishment.
Part of me though wonders if it's a sign of me getting older. I had at least ten years on the average person at that party. Yet, truth be told, the party probably wouldn't have bothered me so much. My work demands that I stay up way into the wee hours of the morn, and even on my days off it's rare that I'm asleep before three. If those kids were going strong at that hour I reckon I could have drowned out the noise with my fan No, the fact is I did it for the ladies and Boy Wonder of Fort Bitchin' - I'm rather fond of that triad of awesomeness. And I was rather miffed that they were being kept awake by a slew of raucous celebrants.
That was the first time I ever ratted someone out to the cops. I guess that makes me a narc, and I would do it again.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
"The Infamous Guak"
Monday night I needed some chips. I had capped off a right awesome Memorial Day Weekend of leisure with some beer and 2-for-1 pizza with some quality people (all killer, no filler). I had spent all of my money save for $2 at Ruski's getting a serious buzz on. Cumberland Farms provided me a bag of artificially flavored sour cream and onion potato chips for $1.29.
I returned to Fort Awesome to find a party going on at both first-floor apartments. I stopped to talk to two guys living it up on the stoop. Out of one of the apartments stepped a young lady in her early twenties. She's a neighbor of mine, and we tend to talk a bit on the stoop when we both happen to be smoking butts. We have never introduced ourselves.
She was drunk and soooooo happy to see me. She yelled "hiiiiiii!" and somehow managed to slur even that. She went on about how she was glad I was outside and that she's not the only one who's often still in pajama bottoms around noon.
"We've never officially introduced ourselves. I'm Katie," she said extending her hand. I shook her hand and said my name was Guak. "Oh my god! You're the infamous Guak?!" Katie exclaimed.
"Wow. 'The infamous Guak?' What do you mean?" I inquired. Katie then went into explaining what "infamous" meant. I cut her off to inform her I was familiar with the word but wanting to know how I was infamous.
My neighbor never told me about my infamy. After my question she merely replied how she was excited to meet me. And that she was going to do some grilling in the near future, and I should take part. I responded by telling her I like grilling things. Katie said of course I did because I'm a man. I went self-deprecating and said something like "I'm kind of a man, but I still enjoy grilling things."
Then she gave me a long hug. A hug I wouldn't expect from a chica I barely know. Even a drunk one. Then Katie scurried back to her apartment.
I admit it pleases me mightily that even now I'll occasionally meet someone, and I get a comment like "you're the infamous Guak." That just by word-of-mouth I have some renown, albeit a small amount to be sure. That I received that comment from a nubile young thang was even better. A little sad? I dunno, maybe a little I guess. But sometimes I gotta take it where I can get it.
I returned to Fort Awesome to find a party going on at both first-floor apartments. I stopped to talk to two guys living it up on the stoop. Out of one of the apartments stepped a young lady in her early twenties. She's a neighbor of mine, and we tend to talk a bit on the stoop when we both happen to be smoking butts. We have never introduced ourselves.
She was drunk and soooooo happy to see me. She yelled "hiiiiiii!" and somehow managed to slur even that. She went on about how she was glad I was outside and that she's not the only one who's often still in pajama bottoms around noon.
"We've never officially introduced ourselves. I'm Katie," she said extending her hand. I shook her hand and said my name was Guak. "Oh my god! You're the infamous Guak?!" Katie exclaimed.
"Wow. 'The infamous Guak?' What do you mean?" I inquired. Katie then went into explaining what "infamous" meant. I cut her off to inform her I was familiar with the word but wanting to know how I was infamous.
My neighbor never told me about my infamy. After my question she merely replied how she was excited to meet me. And that she was going to do some grilling in the near future, and I should take part. I responded by telling her I like grilling things. Katie said of course I did because I'm a man. I went self-deprecating and said something like "I'm kind of a man, but I still enjoy grilling things."
Then she gave me a long hug. A hug I wouldn't expect from a chica I barely know. Even a drunk one. Then Katie scurried back to her apartment.
I admit it pleases me mightily that even now I'll occasionally meet someone, and I get a comment like "you're the infamous Guak." That just by word-of-mouth I have some renown, albeit a small amount to be sure. That I received that comment from a nubile young thang was even better. A little sad? I dunno, maybe a little I guess. But sometimes I gotta take it where I can get it.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Where I'm At
Two installments of GuakTalk in two days?! What the deuce?!
I've been in a weird spot lately. A general feeling of blah. Maybe it was the weeks of rainy weather. Or the life of a Portland cab driver hasn't been all that profitable these last couple of months. I also suspected for a brief spell that I may be lactose intolerant.
Well, nice weather is finally here. Work is (slowly) picking up. And I'm definitely not lactose intolerant. Things are a looking a bit rose. Right now I'm doing better.
But the feeling still remains, even if it's diminished. I've had this idea, off and on now for several months, about maybe saying good bye to Portland for a bit. This urge wasn't as strong as it was this past winter, but recently it had crept back. My parents still on occasion suggest moving down with them to South Carolina to try it out. I don't think I could handle the summers there (heat and humidity are sworn enemies of The Guak), but the late fall through early spring is something else altogether. So I thought taking an extended vacation in late fall and checking it out could be a possibility. Or relocate somewhere else in New England. That way I would still be somewhat close to my friends and weather more agreeable to yours truly. But the thought of moving away to a place where I know few people, if any, terrifies me. Pook told me it wouldn't be starting over, just the beginning of a new chapter. In this case it might be a matter of semantics. Or it might not be. I don't know.
For the time being it's a moot point for I have decided to table the issue. Why? Because right now, this week, I'm okay with Portland. I may revisit this come late summer, though autumn in Maine is fucking tops.
Like many things in life, friendships ebb and flow, at least with me, and I'm sensing connections with some friends weakening. One close friend in particular and I have been drifting apart these last few months despite my efforts. About a month ago I decided to not hold on any longer. I stopped resisting change and just let go. Whatever happens happens. It bummed me out at first, but I'm okay with it now.
I have seen a few friendships wane, but I have experienced some deepen lately as well. There was someone I saw mostly a friend of a friend. This was super foolish on my part because we have a lot in common. Dorky interests. And I recently discovered we can talk for nearly two hours without a lull. This, for me, is no easy task. Good stuff. I guess there is some truth to the "when one door closes another one opens" adage.
So that's where I am in my personal life. And I'm hoping these things I had identified as the causes for my funk have been resolved in some fashion or another. At least for now. Perhaps if I combed the deep recesses of my mind I could find a few more reasons. But why dwell on shit when things are starting to look up?
I've been in a weird spot lately. A general feeling of blah. Maybe it was the weeks of rainy weather. Or the life of a Portland cab driver hasn't been all that profitable these last couple of months. I also suspected for a brief spell that I may be lactose intolerant.
Well, nice weather is finally here. Work is (slowly) picking up. And I'm definitely not lactose intolerant. Things are a looking a bit rose. Right now I'm doing better.
But the feeling still remains, even if it's diminished. I've had this idea, off and on now for several months, about maybe saying good bye to Portland for a bit. This urge wasn't as strong as it was this past winter, but recently it had crept back. My parents still on occasion suggest moving down with them to South Carolina to try it out. I don't think I could handle the summers there (heat and humidity are sworn enemies of The Guak), but the late fall through early spring is something else altogether. So I thought taking an extended vacation in late fall and checking it out could be a possibility. Or relocate somewhere else in New England. That way I would still be somewhat close to my friends and weather more agreeable to yours truly. But the thought of moving away to a place where I know few people, if any, terrifies me. Pook told me it wouldn't be starting over, just the beginning of a new chapter. In this case it might be a matter of semantics. Or it might not be. I don't know.
For the time being it's a moot point for I have decided to table the issue. Why? Because right now, this week, I'm okay with Portland. I may revisit this come late summer, though autumn in Maine is fucking tops.
Like many things in life, friendships ebb and flow, at least with me, and I'm sensing connections with some friends weakening. One close friend in particular and I have been drifting apart these last few months despite my efforts. About a month ago I decided to not hold on any longer. I stopped resisting change and just let go. Whatever happens happens. It bummed me out at first, but I'm okay with it now.
I have seen a few friendships wane, but I have experienced some deepen lately as well. There was someone I saw mostly a friend of a friend. This was super foolish on my part because we have a lot in common. Dorky interests. And I recently discovered we can talk for nearly two hours without a lull. This, for me, is no easy task. Good stuff. I guess there is some truth to the "when one door closes another one opens" adage.
So that's where I am in my personal life. And I'm hoping these things I had identified as the causes for my funk have been resolved in some fashion or another. At least for now. Perhaps if I combed the deep recesses of my mind I could find a few more reasons. But why dwell on shit when things are starting to look up?
Friday, May 27, 2011
My Wednesday Night
I had been looking forward to this past Wednesday for about a month (probably even longer): the premiere bout at the Clash Of The Titans was Queen vs. David Bowie. Two of my favorites.
I had only been to one previous Clash: The Ramones vs. The Clash. The Ramones were great. The Clash...tried. I became frustrated because of these ridiculously long breaks the bands took between songs. Breaks which became longer as the night went on., prompting me to say "fuck it" and go to Ruski's. But I was informed that had been addressed and resolved (for the most part), so I was excited.
But first things first: Sofia had a rare Wednesday night off so she wanted to play some trivia at the public house. I wrangled up Pook, Scotty, and Krysta, and the five of us triviaed hard (yup, I'm making up words now). Not hard enough, however, to win the whole kit and caboodle, not even enough to place second, but we did get third place. Juuuuuust enough to score free alcohol (which we decided to save for a later date) There were three of four correct answers that Scott suggested that we didn't go with, but we were five points out of second so I don't feel so bad about that.
There was also a raffle at Boru's, and the +17 Holy Avengers ended up winning three tickets to a Neon Trees show. I'm not exactly sure any of us have any interest in attending so I might try scalping them in front of the State Theater the night of the show. I'm bad to the bone!
Trivia was done with, and it was time to head over to Port City Music Hall for some rock and roll. The line was fucking long, and we feared we wouldn't get in. We fretted needlessly: the queue was slow-moving due to an ineffectual ticketing system.
We managed to get in and had plenty of time to shoot the shit because, even though the show was scheduled to begin at 10:00 things didn't get started until 10:50. Lame. I'm getting tired of this super late starting shit.
I'm not exactly sure what the hold up was. It certainly wasn't due to the Bowie band squeezing in some extra rehearsal time. They were atrocious. Absolutely fucking awful. Every single instrument, and the vocals, were out of sync. And it's not like those guys were just some musicians that decided to team up for this one gig. They're an actual band! Shameful.
I most definitely wasn't the only one unimpressed. After the Bowie band's second song, a butchering of "Queen Bitch," people headed for the exits. I won't go so far as to say they fled in droves, but there was a bit of a mass exodus.
The singer and guitarist is something of a rock star in Portland. Or at his adoring fans, and himself, think so. I suspect he fancies himself a big fish in a small pond, but the man is more like a moderately talented musician in a relatively small city. I never understood the appeal. And I still don't. I hope after the poor showing folks will stop drinking the Kool-Aid.
The Queen band was better. After (I thought) fun quasi-punk rendition of "We Will Rock You" and a sloppy "Tie Your Mother Down" I wasn't all that impressed. But the fellers got better with each song, and they finally found their groove. The singer was Freddie Mercury enough, and the guitarist decent (though in no way comparable to my favorite astrophysicist (take that, Hawking!)). I was teased with some hot licks from my favorite Queen song, but a tiny taste was all I got. For those keeping track "Keep Yourself Alive" is the song in question.
I also ran into a woman that I had met months ago from an online dating site. We went out twice and then slept together. A few days later she told me an ex had come into her life, and she wanted to see where it might go (but I was still "great" though). Fun.
After only about an hour, I felt underwhelmed at best and nauseous at worst. My desire to eat a shotgun was growing by the minute. This is why I don't try new places. This is why I don't try new places. Luckily a couple of friends felt the same way so Sofia, Luke, and I made like bananas and split. We started for Ruski's.
Along the way I had the pleasure of urinating outside. I meant this in all sincerity because I really enjoy pissing outdoors. Coupled with a full bladder and the awesome feeling of release that ensues, the experience truly is euphoric. My favorite place ever I had to abandon years ago once it became the back entrance for an art studio for children. My conscience just won't let me empty my bladder where small kids might travel, though it's a frequent haunt of High-Steppin' Bobby so the doorway is probably getting its fair share of bodily fluids. But my second favorite place is still in play, so that is where I chose to relieve myself: under the staircase on the side of the Fire Museum. And it was as wonderful as I remembered it being.
The three of us made it to Ruski's, meeting up with Eddy and Allen, who was, simply put, shit-faced. An off-duty bartender was leaving as I entered. She gave me a long hug, and she told me she loved me. She then went to give me one of those kisses not quite on the lips but just to the side. Y'all know what I'm talking about. But I drunkenly turned my head for some reason unbeknownst to me, and the kiss was full on the lips. Oops! It was accident, I swear!
A comfortable, familiar place with good friends and ass cold Pibbers. Exactly what this guy needed to drive the memory of Clash Of The Titans out of my skull.
I had only been to one previous Clash: The Ramones vs. The Clash. The Ramones were great. The Clash...tried. I became frustrated because of these ridiculously long breaks the bands took between songs. Breaks which became longer as the night went on., prompting me to say "fuck it" and go to Ruski's. But I was informed that had been addressed and resolved (for the most part), so I was excited.
But first things first: Sofia had a rare Wednesday night off so she wanted to play some trivia at the public house. I wrangled up Pook, Scotty, and Krysta, and the five of us triviaed hard (yup, I'm making up words now). Not hard enough, however, to win the whole kit and caboodle, not even enough to place second, but we did get third place. Juuuuuust enough to score free alcohol (which we decided to save for a later date) There were three of four correct answers that Scott suggested that we didn't go with, but we were five points out of second so I don't feel so bad about that.
There was also a raffle at Boru's, and the +17 Holy Avengers ended up winning three tickets to a Neon Trees show. I'm not exactly sure any of us have any interest in attending so I might try scalping them in front of the State Theater the night of the show. I'm bad to the bone!
Trivia was done with, and it was time to head over to Port City Music Hall for some rock and roll. The line was fucking long, and we feared we wouldn't get in. We fretted needlessly: the queue was slow-moving due to an ineffectual ticketing system.
We managed to get in and had plenty of time to shoot the shit because, even though the show was scheduled to begin at 10:00 things didn't get started until 10:50. Lame. I'm getting tired of this super late starting shit.
I'm not exactly sure what the hold up was. It certainly wasn't due to the Bowie band squeezing in some extra rehearsal time. They were atrocious. Absolutely fucking awful. Every single instrument, and the vocals, were out of sync. And it's not like those guys were just some musicians that decided to team up for this one gig. They're an actual band! Shameful.
I most definitely wasn't the only one unimpressed. After the Bowie band's second song, a butchering of "Queen Bitch," people headed for the exits. I won't go so far as to say they fled in droves, but there was a bit of a mass exodus.
The singer and guitarist is something of a rock star in Portland. Or at his adoring fans, and himself, think so. I suspect he fancies himself a big fish in a small pond, but the man is more like a moderately talented musician in a relatively small city. I never understood the appeal. And I still don't. I hope after the poor showing folks will stop drinking the Kool-Aid.
The Queen band was better. After (I thought) fun quasi-punk rendition of "We Will Rock You" and a sloppy "Tie Your Mother Down" I wasn't all that impressed. But the fellers got better with each song, and they finally found their groove. The singer was Freddie Mercury enough, and the guitarist decent (though in no way comparable to my favorite astrophysicist (take that, Hawking!)). I was teased with some hot licks from my favorite Queen song, but a tiny taste was all I got. For those keeping track "Keep Yourself Alive" is the song in question.
I also ran into a woman that I had met months ago from an online dating site. We went out twice and then slept together. A few days later she told me an ex had come into her life, and she wanted to see where it might go (but I was still "great" though). Fun.
After only about an hour, I felt underwhelmed at best and nauseous at worst. My desire to eat a shotgun was growing by the minute. This is why I don't try new places. This is why I don't try new places. Luckily a couple of friends felt the same way so Sofia, Luke, and I made like bananas and split. We started for Ruski's.
Along the way I had the pleasure of urinating outside. I meant this in all sincerity because I really enjoy pissing outdoors. Coupled with a full bladder and the awesome feeling of release that ensues, the experience truly is euphoric. My favorite place ever I had to abandon years ago once it became the back entrance for an art studio for children. My conscience just won't let me empty my bladder where small kids might travel, though it's a frequent haunt of High-Steppin' Bobby so the doorway is probably getting its fair share of bodily fluids. But my second favorite place is still in play, so that is where I chose to relieve myself: under the staircase on the side of the Fire Museum. And it was as wonderful as I remembered it being.
The three of us made it to Ruski's, meeting up with Eddy and Allen, who was, simply put, shit-faced. An off-duty bartender was leaving as I entered. She gave me a long hug, and she told me she loved me. She then went to give me one of those kisses not quite on the lips but just to the side. Y'all know what I'm talking about. But I drunkenly turned my head for some reason unbeknownst to me, and the kiss was full on the lips. Oops! It was accident, I swear!
A comfortable, familiar place with good friends and ass cold Pibbers. Exactly what this guy needed to drive the memory of Clash Of The Titans out of my skull.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Bride of Taxi Bits and Pieces!
One of my favorite regular passengers was a nice old lady name Miss Alice (see Sweet Miss Alice ). She was a client of the Regional Transportation Program, so RTP would contract Elite out to drive her three times a week from Southern Maine Dialysis to her daughter's house in Scarborough. But I haven't had her in my cab for months. It's not simply a matter of me not getting the assignment: she wasn't picked up by any of Elite hacks. I wondered if she died. Alice is in her eighties with deteriorating health, going from walking on her own with no help, to walking with some assistance, and finally only being able to walk with a wheeled walker. Despite this drastic change Miss Alice never lost her sunny disposition. I made her laugh often, and I liked that. Last week I drove to 1600 Congress Street, and while waiting for a fare I saw her. She was in a wheel chair and was pushed into an RTP van equipped to aid people with certain special needs. Her omnipresent smile was gone, and, in fact, she looked downright miserable. I am glad that Miss Alice is still alive but bummed out that she quite obviously has taken a turn for the worse, and that sucks.
Speaking of regular passengers that I like, last Tuesday I picked up one of my faves. He never goes very far. His rides are always $4 or less, and always gives $6 (sometimes $10 if he's really drunk). He got in Black Betty and told me I was his favorite cabbie. Later that night I pulled up in front of Blackstones to pick up a transsexual, and he was outside with his buddies smoking. And there he proclaimed me the best cab driver in Portland, and him and his friends started hooting and hollering. It was the first time I've been such appreciation by gay men since my rendition of "Dirty Deeds (Done Dirt Cheap)" during Sucker Punch Weekend.
The Eastland Park Hotel was the site for the senior dance for the ladies of St. Joseph's College (colloquially known as "St. Joe's Hos" (or is it ho's? hoes?)). I've never seen so many drunk women in formal wear wandering the streets. And they all needed help from their dates to remain on their feet.
I was stuck behind some slow motherfucker with Kentucky plates. The license plates also had "War on Terror" printed on them. Is the state of Kentucky a hotbed for al-Qaeda activity? I thoughty I heard a rumor that Mohammed Atta, Jr. was plotting to blow up Louisville's blue grass refineries.
I was dispatched to the Days Inn to pick up someone named "Chantal." I arrived and two women of color hopped in. They talked amongst themselves, and one made a phone call identifying herself to the receiver as "Caramel." I dropped Chantal off in Bayside, and she took off running. Caramel asked if I saw what she saw, and I did: Chantal's dress was riding up as she sprinted, her plump chocolate-colored rump exposed and bouncing. Do the kids still use "badonkadonk?" If so, this lady was sporting the badonkadonkest badonkadonk I had ever seen. I then dropped Caramel off and we spoke briefly...
CARAMEL: Sorry I won't be showing you my ass.
GUAK: My loss for sure.
C: Next time I'll wear a dress for you.
G: Now we're talking!
Six guys piled into my cab the other night. Five of them wore button-down shirts that were either white or pale blue. The sixth guy bucked the trend by wearing a blue and white checkered button-down. They spoke to each other about how they all had sex with the same lucky lady, two of them having her at the same time.
Last week I got a request to pick up the widow of the Second Best Cab Driver In Portland (see Willard Whitaker May 27, 1966 - April 10, 2011 and Willie Part 2 ). I picked Jenny up at her place of employment at the Mill Creek Shopping Center and drove her to her Parkside apartment. She mentioned that Willie sometimes visit her at night and keeps her company. He stays until she tells him to go be with his daughter (who died at a young age). I don't believe in angels or ghosts or any sort of life after death, but in this instance I hope Jenny's right: I would like to think this amazing fella still lives on in some fashion.
After what seemed like forever (but was really only about a month), my Friday night regular called me looking to bring her and two of her friends to the Old Port. I love those gals. I wouldn't call them cougars per se; they're not on the prowl (or at least not all of them are), but I reckon y'all catch my drift. The ladies are reasonably well-behaved, though one did ask me if I liked tag teaming.
I had the pleasure of transporting my favorite Dutchman to the train station.
Monday night I picked up two women at the Holiday Inn By The Bay. My mission, if I chose to accept it, was to drive them to the Florence House so they could pick up some things and drop them back off at Holiday Bay. The Florence House is the location for the city's women's shelter, but it also provides transitional apartments for women that are almost ready to live on their own (or at least with less government assistance). It's in these apartments where those two broads lived. I accepted the mission, and it proved to be an interesting one...
WOMAN #1: I don't know what you're wearing, but you smell good. It's making me hot.
WOMAN #2: Yeah, you're making our twats wet. I'm so hot I'm going to unzip my sweatshirt.
W #2: Don't let her! She's wearing nothing underneath!
I didn't need her warning because for some reason I glanced over and discovered that on my own. Woman #2 was in the front seat, and I noticed her girls were in all their naked...umm...glory? It's sad, a bit depressing even, that the first pair of bare breasts I've seen in months belong to a gross quasi-homeless woman with several missing teeth.
We got to the Florence House, and after a short wait I'm driving them back to the Holiday Inn. And the stimulating conversation continued:
W #2: Do you have a wife?
GUAK: No, I don't.
W #2: Do you want a wife?
G: Heh.
W #2: Do you want to fuck a bitch?
I can be a bit slow on the uptake at times. It was then I realized these two ladies weren't just fucking with me: they wanted The Guak to be the meat in their sandwich. They were giving me their room numbers and digits. They asked me if I wanted to hang out with "wild and crazy girls that like to party."
What happened next I'm almost ashamed to admit. I say almost because I only did it for the story and what's the point of a story if you're not going to share it? I assure you it's not all that scary and gross. So we pull up to their hotel and W #2 put her hand on my cheeks and positioned my face so it's facing hers. She said "come here" and went in to kiss me. So I obliged the troll lady. It wasn't making out, just a bit of a smack on the lips. Maybe it lingered a little long. It probably did. The gals went on their way, and I went back to work.
If I get tuberculosis I know who to blame. Myself.
Speaking of regular passengers that I like, last Tuesday I picked up one of my faves. He never goes very far. His rides are always $4 or less, and always gives $6 (sometimes $10 if he's really drunk). He got in Black Betty and told me I was his favorite cabbie. Later that night I pulled up in front of Blackstones to pick up a transsexual, and he was outside with his buddies smoking. And there he proclaimed me the best cab driver in Portland, and him and his friends started hooting and hollering. It was the first time I've been such appreciation by gay men since my rendition of "Dirty Deeds (Done Dirt Cheap)" during Sucker Punch Weekend.
The Eastland Park Hotel was the site for the senior dance for the ladies of St. Joseph's College (colloquially known as "St. Joe's Hos" (or is it ho's? hoes?)). I've never seen so many drunk women in formal wear wandering the streets. And they all needed help from their dates to remain on their feet.
I was stuck behind some slow motherfucker with Kentucky plates. The license plates also had "War on Terror" printed on them. Is the state of Kentucky a hotbed for al-Qaeda activity? I thoughty I heard a rumor that Mohammed Atta, Jr. was plotting to blow up Louisville's blue grass refineries.
I was dispatched to the Days Inn to pick up someone named "Chantal." I arrived and two women of color hopped in. They talked amongst themselves, and one made a phone call identifying herself to the receiver as "Caramel." I dropped Chantal off in Bayside, and she took off running. Caramel asked if I saw what she saw, and I did: Chantal's dress was riding up as she sprinted, her plump chocolate-colored rump exposed and bouncing. Do the kids still use "badonkadonk?" If so, this lady was sporting the badonkadonkest badonkadonk I had ever seen. I then dropped Caramel off and we spoke briefly...
CARAMEL: Sorry I won't be showing you my ass.
GUAK: My loss for sure.
C: Next time I'll wear a dress for you.
G: Now we're talking!
Six guys piled into my cab the other night. Five of them wore button-down shirts that were either white or pale blue. The sixth guy bucked the trend by wearing a blue and white checkered button-down. They spoke to each other about how they all had sex with the same lucky lady, two of them having her at the same time.
Last week I got a request to pick up the widow of the Second Best Cab Driver In Portland (see Willard Whitaker May 27, 1966 - April 10, 2011 and Willie Part 2 ). I picked Jenny up at her place of employment at the Mill Creek Shopping Center and drove her to her Parkside apartment. She mentioned that Willie sometimes visit her at night and keeps her company. He stays until she tells him to go be with his daughter (who died at a young age). I don't believe in angels or ghosts or any sort of life after death, but in this instance I hope Jenny's right: I would like to think this amazing fella still lives on in some fashion.
After what seemed like forever (but was really only about a month), my Friday night regular called me looking to bring her and two of her friends to the Old Port. I love those gals. I wouldn't call them cougars per se; they're not on the prowl (or at least not all of them are), but I reckon y'all catch my drift. The ladies are reasonably well-behaved, though one did ask me if I liked tag teaming.
I had the pleasure of transporting my favorite Dutchman to the train station.
Monday night I picked up two women at the Holiday Inn By The Bay. My mission, if I chose to accept it, was to drive them to the Florence House so they could pick up some things and drop them back off at Holiday Bay. The Florence House is the location for the city's women's shelter, but it also provides transitional apartments for women that are almost ready to live on their own (or at least with less government assistance). It's in these apartments where those two broads lived. I accepted the mission, and it proved to be an interesting one...
WOMAN #1: I don't know what you're wearing, but you smell good. It's making me hot.
WOMAN #2: Yeah, you're making our twats wet. I'm so hot I'm going to unzip my sweatshirt.
W #2: Don't let her! She's wearing nothing underneath!
I didn't need her warning because for some reason I glanced over and discovered that on my own. Woman #2 was in the front seat, and I noticed her girls were in all their naked...umm...glory? It's sad, a bit depressing even, that the first pair of bare breasts I've seen in months belong to a gross quasi-homeless woman with several missing teeth.
We got to the Florence House, and after a short wait I'm driving them back to the Holiday Inn. And the stimulating conversation continued:
W #2: Do you have a wife?
GUAK: No, I don't.
W #2: Do you want a wife?
G: Heh.
W #2: Do you want to fuck a bitch?
I can be a bit slow on the uptake at times. It was then I realized these two ladies weren't just fucking with me: they wanted The Guak to be the meat in their sandwich. They were giving me their room numbers and digits. They asked me if I wanted to hang out with "wild and crazy girls that like to party."
What happened next I'm almost ashamed to admit. I say almost because I only did it for the story and what's the point of a story if you're not going to share it? I assure you it's not all that scary and gross. So we pull up to their hotel and W #2 put her hand on my cheeks and positioned my face so it's facing hers. She said "come here" and went in to kiss me. So I obliged the troll lady. It wasn't making out, just a bit of a smack on the lips. Maybe it lingered a little long. It probably did. The gals went on their way, and I went back to work.
If I get tuberculosis I know who to blame. Myself.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Thor! Huh, good god! What is he good for? Absolutely nothing?
Mad Wagon had amassed quite a stockpile of CineMagic (CineMagic: where movies and magic come together!). I think he scored them from his work. The passes each have a value of $7.50. Not good enough to get an evening show for free but worth just enough for a matinee.
I snatched three of 'em and took two of my friends to see Thor this past Saturday afternoon. I thought we would get there in time to snag some good seats. It was only playing on one screen at the Westbrook multiplex. This I found odd, but I figured a big blockbuster like this would be shown in one of the big-ass theaters. Y'know, one with a 56' screen. But I was wrong. Smaller theater. Smaller screen. What the hell was playing that the brain trust at CineMagic HQ thought would bring in more of a crowd? The Angry Birds movie? The film adaptation of Atlas Shrugged (no joke!)? The only thing I can think of is Fast Five. So we get in there with about five minutes to spare, and the place is packed. The only spot where we could find three empty seats together was the very front row, a mere 10' or so from the screen. But our options were limited. Other than my neck getting more fucked up than it normally is. I made do.
In my oh-so-humble opinion I give Thor a decisive "meh." A lot of the ho-hum feeling I got I accredit to Natalie Portman. I really don't get her appeal.. She's pretty enough I suppose, but I have never really been impressed with her. I liked her in The Professional (when she was thirteen), and she didn't bother me in Your Highness, but that's about it (though I admit I haven't seen Black Swan). I think of those scenes between her and Hayden Christensen in those StarWars prequels, and my brain hurts. A lot. She continued her lack of chemistry with her male co-stars with Thor. I admit I'm not completely familiar with the Thor solo comics (my knowledge of him comes mostly from The Avengers) so I don't know if her character was created specifically for the film. If she was, fuck you, J. Michael Straczynski. I tire of studios adding love interests to movies for no real reason.
Now I must warn you before you go further, gentle reader. While I contend I reveal no spoilers, some may state that I come dangerously close.
Here are some things I did like about it:
- The actors who portrayed Thor and Loki were decent.
- The special effects were solid, particularly the stuff involving Bi-Frost, the rainbow bridge. The effects certainly weren't mind-blowing, but they were cool to look at.
- It's always a good thing when Stringer Bell and Titus Pullo get acting gigs.
- I enjoyed the "Dr. Donald Blake" references.
- Though he's pretty fucking close to being a talentless hack, I enjoyed Stan Lee's cameo. As lame as he is I always like Stan's cameo appearances.
- The comic relief of quasi-sidekick Darcy, played by Kat Dennings, made me chuckle a few times.
- The presence of Thor's mom, Frigga, was minimal and frankly served no purpose. This is good because I do not care for Rene Russo.
- Kenneth Branagh given a shit load of money to make a movie.
- The brief appearance of a future Avenger who, sadly, will not benefit from a solo film.
Thor's origin gets messed with in a major way. I heard it was to not offend the "Harry Potter is evil because he practices witchcraft" crowd. It's a significant change, but it's done rather subtly. One of my companions didn't even realize it was tweaked until I mentioned it after the fact.
The dialogue was stiff, which works fine for scenes set in Asgard, but not so much between Earthlings ("Midgardians" if you will). Not quite sure why the denizens of Asgard speak with British accents either.
I also thought the inclusion of Thor's buddies, Sif and The Warriors Three, was pointless and in some instances stupid, at least to the extent they were featured in the film. I guess what I'm saying is that most of the supporting characters are unnecessary and ultimately detracted from the picture.
Everything involving Ms. Portman aside, my single biggest issue is the same as my beef with Ironman 2: too much of Thor was spent building up to The Avengers film. I have no doubt this movie, especially with Joss Whedon at the helm, is going to be the bee's fucking knees, but these characters deserve chances to shine on their own. These movies should be treated as individual stories and not merely prequels to a future franchise, but to be fair Thor isn't as bad as Ironman 2 in this regard. Some build-up is cool and even encouraged, but when a considerable chunk of screen time is spent advertising another film it's a disservice to the viewer. It's lame bullshit.
Oh, and make sure to stick around for the stuff after the credits. There's appropriate teasing of things to come at an appropriate place in the film.
I'm hoping Captain America isn't as mediocre.
I snatched three of 'em and took two of my friends to see Thor this past Saturday afternoon. I thought we would get there in time to snag some good seats. It was only playing on one screen at the Westbrook multiplex. This I found odd, but I figured a big blockbuster like this would be shown in one of the big-ass theaters. Y'know, one with a 56' screen. But I was wrong. Smaller theater. Smaller screen. What the hell was playing that the brain trust at CineMagic HQ thought would bring in more of a crowd? The Angry Birds movie? The film adaptation of Atlas Shrugged (no joke!)? The only thing I can think of is Fast Five. So we get in there with about five minutes to spare, and the place is packed. The only spot where we could find three empty seats together was the very front row, a mere 10' or so from the screen. But our options were limited. Other than my neck getting more fucked up than it normally is. I made do.
In my oh-so-humble opinion I give Thor a decisive "meh." A lot of the ho-hum feeling I got I accredit to Natalie Portman. I really don't get her appeal.. She's pretty enough I suppose, but I have never really been impressed with her. I liked her in The Professional (when she was thirteen), and she didn't bother me in Your Highness, but that's about it (though I admit I haven't seen Black Swan). I think of those scenes between her and Hayden Christensen in those StarWars prequels, and my brain hurts. A lot. She continued her lack of chemistry with her male co-stars with Thor. I admit I'm not completely familiar with the Thor solo comics (my knowledge of him comes mostly from The Avengers) so I don't know if her character was created specifically for the film. If she was, fuck you, J. Michael Straczynski. I tire of studios adding love interests to movies for no real reason.
Now I must warn you before you go further, gentle reader. While I contend I reveal no spoilers, some may state that I come dangerously close.
Here are some things I did like about it:
- The actors who portrayed Thor and Loki were decent.
- The special effects were solid, particularly the stuff involving Bi-Frost, the rainbow bridge. The effects certainly weren't mind-blowing, but they were cool to look at.
- It's always a good thing when Stringer Bell and Titus Pullo get acting gigs.
- I enjoyed the "Dr. Donald Blake" references.
- Though he's pretty fucking close to being a talentless hack, I enjoyed Stan Lee's cameo. As lame as he is I always like Stan's cameo appearances.
- The comic relief of quasi-sidekick Darcy, played by Kat Dennings, made me chuckle a few times.
- The presence of Thor's mom, Frigga, was minimal and frankly served no purpose. This is good because I do not care for Rene Russo.
- Kenneth Branagh given a shit load of money to make a movie.
- The brief appearance of a future Avenger who, sadly, will not benefit from a solo film.
Thor's origin gets messed with in a major way. I heard it was to not offend the "Harry Potter is evil because he practices witchcraft" crowd. It's a significant change, but it's done rather subtly. One of my companions didn't even realize it was tweaked until I mentioned it after the fact.
The dialogue was stiff, which works fine for scenes set in Asgard, but not so much between Earthlings ("Midgardians" if you will). Not quite sure why the denizens of Asgard speak with British accents either.
I also thought the inclusion of Thor's buddies, Sif and The Warriors Three, was pointless and in some instances stupid, at least to the extent they were featured in the film. I guess what I'm saying is that most of the supporting characters are unnecessary and ultimately detracted from the picture.
Everything involving Ms. Portman aside, my single biggest issue is the same as my beef with Ironman 2: too much of Thor was spent building up to The Avengers film. I have no doubt this movie, especially with Joss Whedon at the helm, is going to be the bee's fucking knees, but these characters deserve chances to shine on their own. These movies should be treated as individual stories and not merely prequels to a future franchise, but to be fair Thor isn't as bad as Ironman 2 in this regard. Some build-up is cool and even encouraged, but when a considerable chunk of screen time is spent advertising another film it's a disservice to the viewer. It's lame bullshit.
Oh, and make sure to stick around for the stuff after the credits. There's appropriate teasing of things to come at an appropriate place in the film.
I'm hoping Captain America isn't as mediocre.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Taxi Bits And Pieces
Here are a few things seen and/or heard while working this past week...
On Tuesday I saw a large bearded standing near the soup kitchen. He was wearing two tank tops and a plaid skirt. Not a tartan. Most definitely a skirt made for a woman. The man sported makeshift legwarmers. They were also plaid and clashed horribly with the skirt's pattern.
"If those were my kids I'd give those punks an ass warming." - taxi regular who wears a scent that smells of Coco Puffs
I picked up a man at Maine Medical Center and drove him to the Oxford Street Shelter. He said he was a chopper pilot in 'Nam and had a horrible acid trip while at an AC/DC concert in the late '70s.While near the corner of Cumberland Avenue and Mellen Street and he spoke...
MAN: I just got out of prison after serving six years for OUI. (points to a building) Right up here I fucked a girl. I called her up and I said I've been in prison for six years and she said "come over and I'll take care of you."
GUAK: Nice lady.
M: She's only 26.
G: Well done, sir!
M: And it only cost me $60.
"My favorite part about The Wedding Singer was Adam Sandler's character." That's a bold stance, Frank FM DJ.
Speaking of local radio personalities, I was listening to The Blimp's "Red-Eyed Rocker" Rick Brown. I missed the set-up, but the punchline involved players of Dungeons & Dragons players not getting laid. Your are as funny as you are relevant, Rick.
Speaking of local median personalities, Friday night I drove two to J's Oyster. One of them wasn't even close to being as hilarious as he thought he was (though, admittedly, he did make me chuckle). He spoke of smoking fatties with the other and then he started riffing on Somalians. I was not impressed with his tip.
"I danced with two fat girls. Someone's got to." - Fraternal Order of Eagles octogenarian
"That girl's ass is so great I want to suck a turd out of it."
While driving a load of six men and women to the strip club, one of the ladies asked me how many faces I had blessed with my ejaculate. She was not impressed with my answer.
Last night I picked up a leather daddy. He vocalized how he was on the prowl and after striking out at Blackstones he was going to try his luck at Styxx. During the ride he called me "babe" "honey" and "sexy." He gave me $5 for a trip that cost $4.60.
On Tuesday I saw a large bearded standing near the soup kitchen. He was wearing two tank tops and a plaid skirt. Not a tartan. Most definitely a skirt made for a woman. The man sported makeshift legwarmers. They were also plaid and clashed horribly with the skirt's pattern.
"If those were my kids I'd give those punks an ass warming." - taxi regular who wears a scent that smells of Coco Puffs
I picked up a man at Maine Medical Center and drove him to the Oxford Street Shelter. He said he was a chopper pilot in 'Nam and had a horrible acid trip while at an AC/DC concert in the late '70s.While near the corner of Cumberland Avenue and Mellen Street and he spoke...
MAN: I just got out of prison after serving six years for OUI. (points to a building) Right up here I fucked a girl. I called her up and I said I've been in prison for six years and she said "come over and I'll take care of you."
GUAK: Nice lady.
M: She's only 26.
G: Well done, sir!
M: And it only cost me $60.
"My favorite part about The Wedding Singer was Adam Sandler's character." That's a bold stance, Frank FM DJ.
Speaking of local radio personalities, I was listening to The Blimp's "Red-Eyed Rocker" Rick Brown. I missed the set-up, but the punchline involved players of Dungeons & Dragons players not getting laid. Your are as funny as you are relevant, Rick.
Speaking of local median personalities, Friday night I drove two to J's Oyster. One of them wasn't even close to being as hilarious as he thought he was (though, admittedly, he did make me chuckle). He spoke of smoking fatties with the other and then he started riffing on Somalians. I was not impressed with his tip.
"I danced with two fat girls. Someone's got to." - Fraternal Order of Eagles octogenarian
"That girl's ass is so great I want to suck a turd out of it."
While driving a load of six men and women to the strip club, one of the ladies asked me how many faces I had blessed with my ejaculate. She was not impressed with my answer.
Last night I picked up a leather daddy. He vocalized how he was on the prowl and after striking out at Blackstones he was going to try his luck at Styxx. During the ride he called me "babe" "honey" and "sexy." He gave me $5 for a trip that cost $4.60.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
challenges
Michelle made a suggestion. I am a bit worried The Ballad Of Harry Guakomoli is too slow-moving, and I thought the problem that the current story arc with Doktor Maschinemensch was too long. Michelle thinks it might be because the installments are too short. The problem, much to my chagrin, is that Facebook limits the size of status updates to 460 characters or something like that. So Michelle suggested I write longer chapters on my blog and post links on Facebook. I am reluctant: I think adding one more step readership will go down. But something should change, otherwise the crazy German doctor stuff will take forever (particularly since there's some side stuff I want to do). So starting Thursday I'm conducting an experiment: for three days (Thursday, Friday, and Saturday) I will be posting a scene through the serial's blog (guakballad.blogspot.com) only, but I will provide links in my status updates. And then I will go from there.
Speaking of Michelle, she's a big fan of supernatural homoerotica, so she's asked me to write her something. This I find challenging since 1. I have little knowledge of erotic literature, and 2. I'm not attracted to dudes. Yet I have decided to grant the lady's request because I know it's her way to get me to write more. And because she really loves the smut.
Speaking of Michelle, she's a big fan of supernatural homoerotica, so she's asked me to write her something. This I find challenging since 1. I have little knowledge of erotic literature, and 2. I'm not attracted to dudes. Yet I have decided to grant the lady's request because I know it's her way to get me to write more. And because she really loves the smut.
Monday, April 25, 2011
stats
# of times someone tried to bum something from me in the 24 hours I spent in the Boston area: 1
# of times someone tried to bum something from me in the 4 hours I was back in Portland after returning from the Boston area: 4
Ridiculous.
# of times someone tried to bum something from me in the 4 hours I was back in Portland after returning from the Boston area: 4
Ridiculous.
Friday, April 22, 2011
That Emily is one special lady!
Last night I was cruising through the Old Port looking for someone, anyone, to flag me down and pay me to transport them somewhere else. What I got was a prostitute named Emily. I have driven her before, from Paul's Food Center to the Gulf Station on Congress Street. During the ride she had put her head in my lap and and rubbed my crotch. She ended up not having any money (shocker!) so she gave me a little bit of pot as payment. I haven't smoked this shit in years so I passed it off to someone else. Someone who was brave, or stupid, enough to smoke anything from someone who had admitted she was on an eight-day crack binge. Emily even tried to leave an empty crack vial in my cab, which didn't fly with this guy.
This time around she hailed me down at the corner of Market and Middle Streets wearing some...interesting...black top with gold trim and some leopard print pants. She wanted a ride to Bill's Pizza (or, as a fare called it on Tuesday, Pizza Bill's) and gave me $4, but then she thought maybe she didn't have enough money for two slices and asked for a dollar back. She asked "pleeeease?" and put her head in my lap, but then I noticed her hand particularly close to where I had juniorbot charging. Immediately sensing what game this girl was playing I took her hand and gave her back a dollar.
She got out of Black Betty and asked me to wait for her. I sat there hoping someone else would hop in and need a ride. But she came out a few minutes later after going up to every table and talking to the people seated at them. I assume it was to hit them up for money or to ply her trade. But she got her pizza and came got back inside. Emily told me to drive into Bill's parking lot and park near a dumpster so we can "have a conversation." I admit I was curious as to how far I could take this without giving her anything.
Emily did not beat around the bush (so to speak). I pulled up to the dumpster and our conversation started...
EMILY: I'll suck your cock for $40.
GUAK: ...
EMILY: Okay, 20.
GUAK: ...
EMILY: 10...5! I just need some money!
She talked herself down three times from her original offer without me even saying a word! She decided to let me mull over the prospect of a $5 blowjob while she got out of the cab, pulled down her pants and squatted, and pissed in the parking lot. Then the lady of the night got back in the cab...but her pants were still down around her ankles. "$5 and I'll fuck you so good," she claimed. I informed her I wasn't giving her any money. Emily pulled her pants and went on a bit of a rant. I don't remember exactly what she said, but the key words and the gist I recall accurately...
"You're fat and you're ugly. How do you expect to get laid if you don't spend any money? You don't have any money, you ugly gross motherfucker. That's why you never get laid! You should do yourself a favor and be a fucking faggot!"
You know, it's not like those thoughts have never crossed my mind, because they do on occasion.Yet I didn't get upset with the tweaked out hooker. Nor did I get mopey and depressed about it later. Instead I chuckled and calmly said "whore, get out of my cab." And she did. It was the first time I ever called a woman a whore. I didn't particularly like doing it, even though she deserved it and is, quite literally, a whore, but whatever. Fuck that chick. Quite figuratively.
This time around she hailed me down at the corner of Market and Middle Streets wearing some...interesting...black top with gold trim and some leopard print pants. She wanted a ride to Bill's Pizza (or, as a fare called it on Tuesday, Pizza Bill's) and gave me $4, but then she thought maybe she didn't have enough money for two slices and asked for a dollar back. She asked "pleeeease?" and put her head in my lap, but then I noticed her hand particularly close to where I had juniorbot charging. Immediately sensing what game this girl was playing I took her hand and gave her back a dollar.
She got out of Black Betty and asked me to wait for her. I sat there hoping someone else would hop in and need a ride. But she came out a few minutes later after going up to every table and talking to the people seated at them. I assume it was to hit them up for money or to ply her trade. But she got her pizza and came got back inside. Emily told me to drive into Bill's parking lot and park near a dumpster so we can "have a conversation." I admit I was curious as to how far I could take this without giving her anything.
Emily did not beat around the bush (so to speak). I pulled up to the dumpster and our conversation started...
EMILY: I'll suck your cock for $40.
GUAK: ...
EMILY: Okay, 20.
GUAK: ...
EMILY: 10...5! I just need some money!
She talked herself down three times from her original offer without me even saying a word! She decided to let me mull over the prospect of a $5 blowjob while she got out of the cab, pulled down her pants and squatted, and pissed in the parking lot. Then the lady of the night got back in the cab...but her pants were still down around her ankles. "$5 and I'll fuck you so good," she claimed. I informed her I wasn't giving her any money. Emily pulled her pants and went on a bit of a rant. I don't remember exactly what she said, but the key words and the gist I recall accurately...
"You're fat and you're ugly. How do you expect to get laid if you don't spend any money? You don't have any money, you ugly gross motherfucker. That's why you never get laid! You should do yourself a favor and be a fucking faggot!"
You know, it's not like those thoughts have never crossed my mind, because they do on occasion.Yet I didn't get upset with the tweaked out hooker. Nor did I get mopey and depressed about it later. Instead I chuckled and calmly said "whore, get out of my cab." And she did. It was the first time I ever called a woman a whore. I didn't particularly like doing it, even though she deserved it and is, quite literally, a whore, but whatever. Fuck that chick. Quite figuratively.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Willie Part 2
A week and a half ago I lost my fellow cabbie, good friend, and confidant Willie Whitaker to a brain aneurysm. The cause of death was originally thought to be a heart attack, at least that was the word circulating amongst Portland's taxi drivers (a notorious rumor-mongering lot). He would have turned 45 years old May 27th. Please see my previous world wide web log concerning Willie if you haven't read it already.
I've been dealing okay. No weird breakdowns when I'm home drunk and alone. I do think about him every day, more often on nights when I'm driving. But most of the thoughts are of fond memories and not feelings of loss and grief, which I know Willie would have preferred. The wake was for family only, and there wasn't a funeral. Instead there will be a celebration of Willie's life the day after what would have been his birthday. This is also something Mr. Whitaker would have preferred.
The only time it gets tough is when passengers or other drivers bring him up; prolonged discussions make things hard, and I get cold and just want to be left alone and it makes it difficult to ride Black Betty. But I forge onward and put on my brave face and get through it. I'm hoping by talking it helps the other person handle it.
My first job Friday night was driving Willie's wife and son home. During the ride Jenny started weeping, and I'm left to wonder if it was because it was her husband's "little buddy" that picked her up, the only guy Willie trusted to get her home safely. When we got to her place we hugged for a long time, standing in the middle of Sherman Street, Jenny sobbing and me on the verge of it. I gave her my number and told her if she ever needed a ride to call me, and it will always be free.
I am mostly reminded of Willie when I am parked the the Greyhound station. The 'Hound was his perch. If he didn't have a fare you could bet on finding Willie there. If another Elite driver had the audacity to park at The 'Hound he would jokingly order him to "get the fuck off my stand." Or maybe just half-joking. Or not joking at all. I, however, was never told to vamoose. According to Willie, The Dude was always welcome on his stand.
And this is where I am as I write this, sitting at The 'Hound on a brutally quiet Tuesday night. It's starting to rain as I bang this out in my notebook, waiting until I get home to type this entry on guakbot and post it for the world to see. I'm feeling the coldness again. Perhaps it's because I haven't eaten anything since Monday night during Mittens + Fuzz Friendly Fun Time, but I can also sense his presence. Regardless, now and forever this will always be Willie's stand.
I've been dealing okay. No weird breakdowns when I'm home drunk and alone. I do think about him every day, more often on nights when I'm driving. But most of the thoughts are of fond memories and not feelings of loss and grief, which I know Willie would have preferred. The wake was for family only, and there wasn't a funeral. Instead there will be a celebration of Willie's life the day after what would have been his birthday. This is also something Mr. Whitaker would have preferred.
The only time it gets tough is when passengers or other drivers bring him up; prolonged discussions make things hard, and I get cold and just want to be left alone and it makes it difficult to ride Black Betty. But I forge onward and put on my brave face and get through it. I'm hoping by talking it helps the other person handle it.
My first job Friday night was driving Willie's wife and son home. During the ride Jenny started weeping, and I'm left to wonder if it was because it was her husband's "little buddy" that picked her up, the only guy Willie trusted to get her home safely. When we got to her place we hugged for a long time, standing in the middle of Sherman Street, Jenny sobbing and me on the verge of it. I gave her my number and told her if she ever needed a ride to call me, and it will always be free.
I am mostly reminded of Willie when I am parked the the Greyhound station. The 'Hound was his perch. If he didn't have a fare you could bet on finding Willie there. If another Elite driver had the audacity to park at The 'Hound he would jokingly order him to "get the fuck off my stand." Or maybe just half-joking. Or not joking at all. I, however, was never told to vamoose. According to Willie, The Dude was always welcome on his stand.
And this is where I am as I write this, sitting at The 'Hound on a brutally quiet Tuesday night. It's starting to rain as I bang this out in my notebook, waiting until I get home to type this entry on guakbot and post it for the world to see. I'm feeling the coldness again. Perhaps it's because I haven't eaten anything since Monday night during Mittens + Fuzz Friendly Fun Time, but I can also sense his presence. Regardless, now and forever this will always be Willie's stand.
The latest collection of The Ballad Of Harry Guakomoli has been posted (a link can be found below). It's got a bit of German in it, and some of the words I ended up looking up on juniorbot's Google translator widget dealie. So now the autofill of my phone likes to suggest German words, or English words with added umlauts. It's a pain, man.
Part VII
Also, I'm also interested in what those reading this thing think. Positive, negative, indifferent, I'd like to get some feedback. Feel free to leave any nice remarks as comments here, but if you're going to write something that might hurt my feelings and cause me to hurt someone, please email me at strutting_guak@yahoo.com
Part VII
Also, I'm also interested in what those reading this thing think. Positive, negative, indifferent, I'd like to get some feedback. Feel free to leave any nice remarks as comments here, but if you're going to write something that might hurt my feelings and cause me to hurt someone, please email me at strutting_guak@yahoo.com
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Willard Whitaker May 27, 1966 - April 10, 2011
I really don't have any friends in the cab business. Sure, there's a lot of shooting of the shit, and most drivers I like well enough, but none I have any sort of bond with deeper than on a superficial level. I did have one, Willie Whitaker, but he died of a heart attack Sunday afternoon. He would have been 45 next month.
Willie Whitaker was one of the few people I felt I could tell anything to without repercussion. Maybe because he had nothing to do with my personal life, but I told him things I have never told anyone and probably never will. Every frustration, no matter how big nor how small, I told the "teddy bear" (a nickname I did not bestow upon him but found incredibly apt). And while his advice was usually terrible, if he gave any at all, he never judged, though I'm sure I came across as pathetic from time to time.
I was the only one he truly trusted to pick him his wife if he couldn't. I never ran the meter on Jenny, which bothered her, so she would always give me significantly more money than if I had and ignored me when I old her it was too much.
Once, almost a year ago, Willie blatantly stole a fare that I had legitimate claim. It happens often enough; while we all may drive for Elite we're all in business for ourselves, and it can get mighty cutthroat out there. But it hurt me quite a bit that he did it to me. We were friends. I didn't speak to him for a couple of days after that. Then we ran into each other at the office and put his monster of an arm around me and said "I'm sorry, buddy" and I couldn't stay mad at him.
Willie was only an inch or two taller than me, but he was close to 200 pounds heavier. Though on the tall side at 6' even, I do feel short on occasion (having a friend who is 6' 8" will do that), but rarely do I feel small. And that's what he did. Yet it just wasn't his size; his larger-than-life personality contributed to it was well. Loud, funny, kindhearted, and often referred to "The Anaconda" he concealed in the sweatpants he always wore.
I found out about Willie's death via Facebook (a fact that bothers me to no end). I was checking out my preferred social networking site of choice on my way to Pook's for some thrilling Super Mario Bros 3 action. While I was there it hadn't quite sunk in yet, I think I was still in shock. I played SMB3 with some of my favorite people, and that was enough of a distraction. And then off to Boru's with some more of my favorite people, and that was also distraction enough. But about 2:30 or 3 Monday morning, drunk, playing Dragon Age 2, and eating a shitty turkey sandwich from Cumberland Farms, I broke down. I'm certain the beer played a part in that, but a deluge of emotions, none of them good, washed over me. It was also the first time in fuck knows how long that I cried. Just a little bit, I swear. That I do completely blame on the alcohol.
It's been getting a little better ever since. I tried writing this Monday night while I was in my cab, but I couldn't get past the title. Tonight I was able to, obviously, but it was hard. Luckily, I have some wonderful friends offering me support and help, and for that I am eternally grateful. It's only been two days, but I can already feel his absence. And it sucks.
Willie Whitaker was one of the few people I felt I could tell anything to without repercussion. Maybe because he had nothing to do with my personal life, but I told him things I have never told anyone and probably never will. Every frustration, no matter how big nor how small, I told the "teddy bear" (a nickname I did not bestow upon him but found incredibly apt). And while his advice was usually terrible, if he gave any at all, he never judged, though I'm sure I came across as pathetic from time to time.
I was the only one he truly trusted to pick him his wife if he couldn't. I never ran the meter on Jenny, which bothered her, so she would always give me significantly more money than if I had and ignored me when I old her it was too much.
Once, almost a year ago, Willie blatantly stole a fare that I had legitimate claim. It happens often enough; while we all may drive for Elite we're all in business for ourselves, and it can get mighty cutthroat out there. But it hurt me quite a bit that he did it to me. We were friends. I didn't speak to him for a couple of days after that. Then we ran into each other at the office and put his monster of an arm around me and said "I'm sorry, buddy" and I couldn't stay mad at him.
Willie was only an inch or two taller than me, but he was close to 200 pounds heavier. Though on the tall side at 6' even, I do feel short on occasion (having a friend who is 6' 8" will do that), but rarely do I feel small. And that's what he did. Yet it just wasn't his size; his larger-than-life personality contributed to it was well. Loud, funny, kindhearted, and often referred to "The Anaconda" he concealed in the sweatpants he always wore.
I found out about Willie's death via Facebook (a fact that bothers me to no end). I was checking out my preferred social networking site of choice on my way to Pook's for some thrilling Super Mario Bros 3 action. While I was there it hadn't quite sunk in yet, I think I was still in shock. I played SMB3 with some of my favorite people, and that was enough of a distraction. And then off to Boru's with some more of my favorite people, and that was also distraction enough. But about 2:30 or 3 Monday morning, drunk, playing Dragon Age 2, and eating a shitty turkey sandwich from Cumberland Farms, I broke down. I'm certain the beer played a part in that, but a deluge of emotions, none of them good, washed over me. It was also the first time in fuck knows how long that I cried. Just a little bit, I swear. That I do completely blame on the alcohol.
It's been getting a little better ever since. I tried writing this Monday night while I was in my cab, but I couldn't get past the title. Tonight I was able to, obviously, but it was hard. Luckily, I have some wonderful friends offering me support and help, and for that I am eternally grateful. It's only been two days, but I can already feel his absence. And it sucks.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
The Ballad of Harry Guakomoli Part VI
I posted another collection of my serial-via-Facebook, The Ballad of Harry Guakomoli. I have also decided to make the story a Monday through Friday affair. The link can be found. Thanks for reading!
Part VI
Part VI
Friday, April 8, 2011
Sucker Punched! Part III: All Good Things Must Come To An End
I woke up a little after nine hungry and dehydrated as a motherfucker. After pounding some water, Michelle and I headed to Ball Square Cafe. We tried to get there before the rush, yet our efforts were for naught. We waited outside for a spell, but that's okay: it was a sunny, albeit windy, morning. Owner man was nice and gave us some hot chocolate to warm our bellies. I ordered three chocolate chip and banana pancakes with whipped cream.
I am a little reluctant to admit this publicly since I love both the people and food at Marcy's Diner, but those pancakes, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the best flapjacks I have ever ever EVER had. Fuck, I hope Jolie and Murray don't find out.
We went back to Michelle's after breakfast, and I checked out her extensive book collection of supernatural eroticism. That lady sure does love her interspecies fucking! Scandalous!
I've just realized I used "fuck" in every paragraph thus far. I fucking rock!
My gracious hostess and I returned to Harvard Square to check out a cool, but cramped, comic book shop. I reckon it had been close to a year since I had stepped foot into one, which I find weird. I would go into Casablanca Comics religiously every Wednesday for the week's new books and now nothing. Leave it to six months of unemployment to make one reassess priorities. I also accompanied Michelle while she shopped for eyeglasses. From what I am told this is a fairly regular occurrence, but I hear all this looking around will soon pay off.
It's also at Harvard Square that juniorbot failed me. Michelle's phone was shitting the bed, and she asked me to see if there was a Verizon store nearby. According to the store locator, there was nary a Verizon vendor in all of Cambridge. This I found queer, but the internets don't lie, right? So of course we turn the corner, ad there's a dealer right there. I don't fault juniorbot; I place the blame squarely on Verizon and not her, but it still hurt.
Michelle accompanied me back to South Station. Sucker Punch Weekend was coming to an end. We hugged each other for a long time. This made me quite the fortunate fella, the lady being one of the finest huggers the world has ever produced. There were a few snags, but SPW was still a smashing success, though just the fact that I got to spend a bunch of quality time with one of my closest friends (and one I don't get to see nearly enough) makes it a fucking awesome time any way you slice it.
I am a little reluctant to admit this publicly since I love both the people and food at Marcy's Diner, but those pancakes, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the best flapjacks I have ever ever EVER had. Fuck, I hope Jolie and Murray don't find out.
We went back to Michelle's after breakfast, and I checked out her extensive book collection of supernatural eroticism. That lady sure does love her interspecies fucking! Scandalous!
I've just realized I used "fuck" in every paragraph thus far. I fucking rock!
My gracious hostess and I returned to Harvard Square to check out a cool, but cramped, comic book shop. I reckon it had been close to a year since I had stepped foot into one, which I find weird. I would go into Casablanca Comics religiously every Wednesday for the week's new books and now nothing. Leave it to six months of unemployment to make one reassess priorities. I also accompanied Michelle while she shopped for eyeglasses. From what I am told this is a fairly regular occurrence, but I hear all this looking around will soon pay off.
It's also at Harvard Square that juniorbot failed me. Michelle's phone was shitting the bed, and she asked me to see if there was a Verizon store nearby. According to the store locator, there was nary a Verizon vendor in all of Cambridge. This I found queer, but the internets don't lie, right? So of course we turn the corner, ad there's a dealer right there. I don't fault juniorbot; I place the blame squarely on Verizon and not her, but it still hurt.
Michelle accompanied me back to South Station. Sucker Punch Weekend was coming to an end. We hugged each other for a long time. This made me quite the fortunate fella, the lady being one of the finest huggers the world has ever produced. There were a few snags, but SPW was still a smashing success, though just the fact that I got to spend a bunch of quality time with one of my closest friends (and one I don't get to see nearly enough) makes it a fucking awesome time any way you slice it.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Sucker Punched! Part II: Saturday Night's Alright for AC/DC and S&M
My co-conspirator and I needed to get the sour taste of Sucker Punch out of our mouths and only one thing could do that: gyros! Michelle knew this place called Cinderella's that served delicious gyros. On the way I noticed a Chinese restaurant named Pu Pu Hot Pot, which immediately became slang for a certain body part belonging to a certain person. The gyro was excellent. I wasn't sure about lamb; the only other time I had it was in a meat pie with hamburg and other stuff. This thing was a monster, about as thick as a beer can and nearly a foot long. It was sooooooooo good! I want another one right now! And, yes, the server pronounced it "jahy-roh."
After a fantastic dinner we had some time to kill so we searched around for a place to get a drink. This was around seven on a Saturday so it was busy everywhere, including Asgard (an Irish bar?!) and a place with the word "Science" in it. But we found a spot that was dead, and we each had a dark and stormy (though, for the sake of accuracy, I ended up drinking nearly half of Michelle's libation).
After that it was time for Saturday night's main event of Sucker Punch Weekend: karaoke! Karaoke, specifically, at Michelle's haunt, Courtside. I was skeptical about the place at first, thinking it was a sports bar due to its name, but luckily it was named due to its proximity to some court house. Phew! Michelle sang fairly early in the night, performing a lively rendition of "S&M" by Rihanna. She sure belted the hell out of that number! The whole time I was drinking PBR and downed a shooter called "your panties my tongue" - a delightful orange concoction that I think tasted of coconut.
I was getting mighty lit when the emcee called for Harry G (that's me!) to sing AC/DC's "Dirty Deeds (Done Dirt Cheap)" - one of my favorite songs. I'm typically a modest man so believe me, gentle reader, when I tell you that with the exception of a few missteps I rocked it. I fucking rocked it. At the end a table of gay gentlemen and their lady hangers-on chanted "Harry G! Harry G! Harry G!" A truer indication of success may never be discovered.
Shortly after my performance the one low point of karaoke occurred. There was a man there, mid-40's, short hair, his white shirt tucked into his jeans, that I knew if he sang, whatever song he picked would piss me off. I just had this feeling. And Mr. Jackass did not disappoint. Rage filled my head and heart as the opening bars of "Old Time Rock & Roll" started. While Stevie Ray Vaughan is the musician I despise above all others, that particular piece of shit song by that fuckhead Bob Seger is, unquestionably, the worst song ever recorded. And this shitface sang it. I discovered the only thing worse than "Old Time Rock & Roll" is some redneck asshole singing it karaoke-style.
But Michelle was able to drive it out of my head with a balls-to-the-wall rendition of "Highway To Hell" (an AC/DC one-two punch? score!). If the road to Hell was paved with Michelle's karaoke spunk and finesse it would be a journey I wouldn't mind taking.
One o'clock came and it was time to go away. We scored a ride back to Michelle's place (fuck you, bus!). After some water and Tosh.0 it was time for bed. Though I may have squeezed in some Angry Birds.
To be concluded...
After a fantastic dinner we had some time to kill so we searched around for a place to get a drink. This was around seven on a Saturday so it was busy everywhere, including Asgard (an Irish bar?!) and a place with the word "Science" in it. But we found a spot that was dead, and we each had a dark and stormy (though, for the sake of accuracy, I ended up drinking nearly half of Michelle's libation).
After that it was time for Saturday night's main event of Sucker Punch Weekend: karaoke! Karaoke, specifically, at Michelle's haunt, Courtside. I was skeptical about the place at first, thinking it was a sports bar due to its name, but luckily it was named due to its proximity to some court house. Phew! Michelle sang fairly early in the night, performing a lively rendition of "S&M" by Rihanna. She sure belted the hell out of that number! The whole time I was drinking PBR and downed a shooter called "your panties my tongue" - a delightful orange concoction that I think tasted of coconut.
I was getting mighty lit when the emcee called for Harry G (that's me!) to sing AC/DC's "Dirty Deeds (Done Dirt Cheap)" - one of my favorite songs. I'm typically a modest man so believe me, gentle reader, when I tell you that with the exception of a few missteps I rocked it. I fucking rocked it. At the end a table of gay gentlemen and their lady hangers-on chanted "Harry G! Harry G! Harry G!" A truer indication of success may never be discovered.
Shortly after my performance the one low point of karaoke occurred. There was a man there, mid-40's, short hair, his white shirt tucked into his jeans, that I knew if he sang, whatever song he picked would piss me off. I just had this feeling. And Mr. Jackass did not disappoint. Rage filled my head and heart as the opening bars of "Old Time Rock & Roll" started. While Stevie Ray Vaughan is the musician I despise above all others, that particular piece of shit song by that fuckhead Bob Seger is, unquestionably, the worst song ever recorded. And this shitface sang it. I discovered the only thing worse than "Old Time Rock & Roll" is some redneck asshole singing it karaoke-style.
But Michelle was able to drive it out of my head with a balls-to-the-wall rendition of "Highway To Hell" (an AC/DC one-two punch? score!). If the road to Hell was paved with Michelle's karaoke spunk and finesse it would be a journey I wouldn't mind taking.
One o'clock came and it was time to go away. We scored a ride back to Michelle's place (fuck you, bus!). After some water and Tosh.0 it was time for bed. Though I may have squeezed in some Angry Birds.
To be concluded...
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Sucker Punched! Part I: The Disappointment
It has been some time since I have posted an entry for GuakTalk. I could make up some bullshit excuse, but when I'm working all my downtime lately has been spent tooling around on juniorbot, and at home I'm in the Guakcave playing video games.
Yet I admit it's due for an installment. I wanted to write about my experience known as Sucker Punch Weekend, but that was a week and a half ago. Was it too late? My partner-in-crime suggested that SPW be a GuakTalk topic, so fuck it. Better late than never, right?
Michelle and I had been excited about the film Sucker Punch for months; the trailer looked absolutely amazing: hot, scantily clad ladies take on dragons, zombies, orcs, and robots with katanas, pistols, and gatling guns. It was fanboy, or in Michelle's case, fangirl, masturbatory eye candy of the highest order. We didn't give a shit about what the story was. We had to see it when it came out, and the concept of Sucker Punch Weekend was born.
After an excellent late breakfast with Bethlynne and the Coolest Baby In The USA, I boarded the bus to Bean Town. I read a BPRD trade paperback that David lent me and once I was done with that I worked on Abraham Lincoln Vampire Hunter, which I'm really enjoying. I arrived at South Station at 3:30, and I hit the ground running (not literally: I do not run). Michelle and I took the T to Harvard Square, starting SPW the right way...or so I thought.
We smuggled in some snacks and we shared a cherry Coke. The movie was...disappointing. Not enough of the anachronistic ass-kicking. The story was confusing and convoluted. And even for action movies the characters were cookie-cutter and didn't capture my sympathy even a little bit. Carla Gugino (whom I love) pulled off an Eastern European accent well enough, but she and the bodacious bad-ass babes weren't enough to make me give a shit. Stick to the adaptations, Zack Snyder.
To be continued...
Yet I admit it's due for an installment. I wanted to write about my experience known as Sucker Punch Weekend, but that was a week and a half ago. Was it too late? My partner-in-crime suggested that SPW be a GuakTalk topic, so fuck it. Better late than never, right?
Michelle and I had been excited about the film Sucker Punch for months; the trailer looked absolutely amazing: hot, scantily clad ladies take on dragons, zombies, orcs, and robots with katanas, pistols, and gatling guns. It was fanboy, or in Michelle's case, fangirl, masturbatory eye candy of the highest order. We didn't give a shit about what the story was. We had to see it when it came out, and the concept of Sucker Punch Weekend was born.
After an excellent late breakfast with Bethlynne and the Coolest Baby In The USA, I boarded the bus to Bean Town. I read a BPRD trade paperback that David lent me and once I was done with that I worked on Abraham Lincoln Vampire Hunter, which I'm really enjoying. I arrived at South Station at 3:30, and I hit the ground running (not literally: I do not run). Michelle and I took the T to Harvard Square, starting SPW the right way...or so I thought.
We smuggled in some snacks and we shared a cherry Coke. The movie was...disappointing. Not enough of the anachronistic ass-kicking. The story was confusing and convoluted. And even for action movies the characters were cookie-cutter and didn't capture my sympathy even a little bit. Carla Gugino (whom I love) pulled off an Eastern European accent well enough, but she and the bodacious bad-ass babes weren't enough to make me give a shit. Stick to the adaptations, Zack Snyder.
To be continued...
Saturday, March 26, 2011
I have posted the latest collection of my serial-via-Facebook, The Ballad Of Harry Guakomoli. I changed the title a bit (am I allowed to do that?). I invite you all to let me know what you think, but if it's harsh or mean please tell me in private. Thank you.
The Ballad of Harry Guakomoli Part V
The Ballad of Harry Guakomoli Part V
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
51 Hours in Flushing, Queens
Last Friday I left Portland to go to Queens. It was a trip I had been looking forward to for some time: not just because it was to be the first time I got to see my parents and sisters in months (which was great), but also Portland has been wearing on me a bit. Not in a particularly overwhelming way and nothing even close to the extend around the holidays. I just needed to get the fuck out of Dodge for a few days.
I got myself a super phone, one of them Droid jobbies. A belated Christmas present from my sisters. I decided to name her guakbot, jr. after my beloved laptop, guakbot (yes, sans caps). She's juniorbot for short, though it isn't shorter at all. I had been using a prepaid phone, a "burner" as Stringer Bell would call it, that I had snapped a SIM card into so I could be on my sisters' plan. That was about four years ago I think. It came with no bells and whistles, unless you count a calculator and an alarm clock as extravagant, and that was just fine with me. But the thing was getting old and not working as it should some of the time: taking several attempts to make a phone call or not being able to send or receive texts. And then the battery started to go. It was time to replace the gadget. Enter juniorbot. This girl is pretty awesome. I never had a phone with a camera and the internets and that could play music and videos and music videos. When I upgrade I fucking upgrade!
I spent a lot of the time walking around Flushing, a big reason was that my family spent a good chunk of time watching NCAA basketball. Yawn. Flushing is predominantly a Chinese neighborhood, with lots of Indians as well. Caucasians certainly are in the minority, which for a white boy who has spent most of his existence in Maine, a place that dukes it out with Vermont as the whitest state in The Union, took some getting used to. But it's pretty cool. I like having about 6-8" of height on almost everyone else. The signage is interesting, the Chinese alphabet I've always liked. It also helps that I most certainly have a "thing" for Asian women ("yellow fever" if you will). I saw so many Chinese ladies. It was great.
So I did a lot of walking around taking in the sights. It gave me an opportunity to try out juniorbot's camera capabilities. Some of those photos I will post on Facebook in the next day or two.
Sunday I woke up at 7:30 in the morning. This, as many of you might suspect, was pure agony for yours truly. But my parents wanted to hit the road back to South Carolina by nine or so and wanted to take their spawn out to breakfast before they left. We at some diner that billed itself as "the original pancake house." Our waitress wasn't particularly friendly, which my family bitched about, but I appreciated. I enjoy Flo-like "kiss my grits" sass from my servers, especially when I'm at a diner. I ordered a plate of silver dollar pancakes, advertised as ten in number. What I got was a mound of fluffy delight, definitely more than ten. So I counted them. Sixteen! Sixteen motherfucking silver dollar pancakes! Bushwa! Damn, that place rocked!
Later on in the day I was strolling through Chinatown and on two different occasions I was propositioned by women offering "special" massages. I politely declined, though one of the ladies I had to reject three times before she finally left me alone. But then I got thinking: while I may not want to pay for a handjob, a legitimate massage might actually be nice. I've never had one before, but I hear they're fantastic. There must be legitimate masseuses in Chinatown, right? So I was approached by an older Asian man. This was our conversation:
Older Asian Man: You want massage?
Guak: From you?
OAM: No, from Chinese girl.
G: Is this one of those special massages?
OAM: No, not special.
G: How much?
OAM: $30
G: Yeah, okay. Let's go check it out.
Older Asian Man grabbed my arm and led me down a side street and into a business with a sign just in Chinese. I paid my $30 and was led into a tiny room. Two of its "walls" were just curtains. A sign of the wall stated "no eroticism of any kind." a super cute Chinese lady (OAM wasn't lying!) came in and asked if I wanted it medium or harder. I decided fuck it, let's do harder. So she did. Driving her elbows, knees, and heels into my back. Pinching the hell out of my neck. Pulling my arms back and karate chopping them. Pulling my fingers until they pop. All the hype I had heard about massages was true. I felt euphoric.It is the best sensation I have felt in a long time. It was pure bliss.
I walked back to my sisters' place and had just enough time to pack and scarf down some Chinese food before Ashley drove me to the airport. I bought a pop and boarded the plane. We left at 9pm.
The pop's carbonation made me burp like crazy. The smell of Diet Dr. Pepper and Chinese food made me gag a little.I hope the guy beside me smelled them too. Mini-Bible-reading jerkface.
I got myself a super phone, one of them Droid jobbies. A belated Christmas present from my sisters. I decided to name her guakbot, jr. after my beloved laptop, guakbot (yes, sans caps). She's juniorbot for short, though it isn't shorter at all. I had been using a prepaid phone, a "burner" as Stringer Bell would call it, that I had snapped a SIM card into so I could be on my sisters' plan. That was about four years ago I think. It came with no bells and whistles, unless you count a calculator and an alarm clock as extravagant, and that was just fine with me. But the thing was getting old and not working as it should some of the time: taking several attempts to make a phone call or not being able to send or receive texts. And then the battery started to go. It was time to replace the gadget. Enter juniorbot. This girl is pretty awesome. I never had a phone with a camera and the internets and that could play music and videos and music videos. When I upgrade I fucking upgrade!
I spent a lot of the time walking around Flushing, a big reason was that my family spent a good chunk of time watching NCAA basketball. Yawn. Flushing is predominantly a Chinese neighborhood, with lots of Indians as well. Caucasians certainly are in the minority, which for a white boy who has spent most of his existence in Maine, a place that dukes it out with Vermont as the whitest state in The Union, took some getting used to. But it's pretty cool. I like having about 6-8" of height on almost everyone else. The signage is interesting, the Chinese alphabet I've always liked. It also helps that I most certainly have a "thing" for Asian women ("yellow fever" if you will). I saw so many Chinese ladies. It was great.
So I did a lot of walking around taking in the sights. It gave me an opportunity to try out juniorbot's camera capabilities. Some of those photos I will post on Facebook in the next day or two.
Sunday I woke up at 7:30 in the morning. This, as many of you might suspect, was pure agony for yours truly. But my parents wanted to hit the road back to South Carolina by nine or so and wanted to take their spawn out to breakfast before they left. We at some diner that billed itself as "the original pancake house." Our waitress wasn't particularly friendly, which my family bitched about, but I appreciated. I enjoy Flo-like "kiss my grits" sass from my servers, especially when I'm at a diner. I ordered a plate of silver dollar pancakes, advertised as ten in number. What I got was a mound of fluffy delight, definitely more than ten. So I counted them. Sixteen! Sixteen motherfucking silver dollar pancakes! Bushwa! Damn, that place rocked!
Later on in the day I was strolling through Chinatown and on two different occasions I was propositioned by women offering "special" massages. I politely declined, though one of the ladies I had to reject three times before she finally left me alone. But then I got thinking: while I may not want to pay for a handjob, a legitimate massage might actually be nice. I've never had one before, but I hear they're fantastic. There must be legitimate masseuses in Chinatown, right? So I was approached by an older Asian man. This was our conversation:
Older Asian Man: You want massage?
Guak: From you?
OAM: No, from Chinese girl.
G: Is this one of those special massages?
OAM: No, not special.
G: How much?
OAM: $30
G: Yeah, okay. Let's go check it out.
Older Asian Man grabbed my arm and led me down a side street and into a business with a sign just in Chinese. I paid my $30 and was led into a tiny room. Two of its "walls" were just curtains. A sign of the wall stated "no eroticism of any kind." a super cute Chinese lady (OAM wasn't lying!) came in and asked if I wanted it medium or harder. I decided fuck it, let's do harder. So she did. Driving her elbows, knees, and heels into my back. Pinching the hell out of my neck. Pulling my arms back and karate chopping them. Pulling my fingers until they pop. All the hype I had heard about massages was true. I felt euphoric.It is the best sensation I have felt in a long time. It was pure bliss.
I walked back to my sisters' place and had just enough time to pack and scarf down some Chinese food before Ashley drove me to the airport. I bought a pop and boarded the plane. We left at 9pm.
The pop's carbonation made me burp like crazy. The smell of Diet Dr. Pepper and Chinese food made me gag a little.I hope the guy beside me smelled them too. Mini-Bible-reading jerkface.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
My Former Neighbors
I picked up a former neighbor of mine last week. She occupied the apartment now known as "Fort Bitchin'" - the unit across hall from my own. She was in her late thirties or early forties when she lived there with her two sons, who were both in their teens. She also lived there with her boyfriend. That is until something happened and her kids kicked the shit out of him. The end of a relationship doesn't get any more official than that. The boys were no strangers to crime; my friend recognized the older one from when he used to work at the teen center in South Portland. But the guys and I were on good terms. They told me if anyone ever gave me a hard time they would take care of it. If I have to have thugs living in my building, it's best that the thugs have my back.
The older son moved out at one point to live with his girlfriend whom he had knocked up. Babies having babies. Soon after the lady of the house's nephew moved in. He had just been released from prison. I don't remember what he was convicted of. A drug charge I think. He seemed to have cleaned himself up during his stretch in the joint. The guy learned to read while incarcerated, and he had a job. Sure, his job was escorting dancers to "private parties" but still...the man was making cheddar by legal means. One time there was a party at Fort Awesome (courtesy of the Party Princesses), and he found out about and got really excited. His plan was to call his stripper co-workers and them bring over, along with cocaine. The blow I could, and still can, do without, but strippers I would have welcomed with open arms. But the family matriarch poopooed that idea, telling her nephew he wasn't going to ruin our good time. I'm not exactly sure how bringing over ladies that take their clothes off for a living is a bad idea. C'est la vie.
The nephew was a good conversationalist. We had some good talks on the stoop, until he started talking about white pride. Literacy wasn't the only thing my neighbor picked up in the clink despite the man who taught him to read black. He claimed it wasn't racism but just being proud of his race. I never understood that argument. The concept of black pride stems from generations of people of color being told that they were inferior to caucasians (at best) or treated as nothing better than livestock (at worst). White men, as a collective, have never been through that struggle. We have always been the oppressors, either towards brown-skinned people, women, or each other. So, yeah, I don't fucking buy it but whatever. Be proud. But the second you started dropping N-bombs, former neighbor o' mine, you stopped pretending to be proud of your racial heritage and revealed yourself to be the racist shitbird that you truly are.
So, Rosie, White Power Brian, Ex-Boyfriend, and Kids 1 and 2: while you were perfectly fine neighbors, in your own right, I think I will stick with Bethlynne, Sofia, and Finn.
The older son moved out at one point to live with his girlfriend whom he had knocked up. Babies having babies. Soon after the lady of the house's nephew moved in. He had just been released from prison. I don't remember what he was convicted of. A drug charge I think. He seemed to have cleaned himself up during his stretch in the joint. The guy learned to read while incarcerated, and he had a job. Sure, his job was escorting dancers to "private parties" but still...the man was making cheddar by legal means. One time there was a party at Fort Awesome (courtesy of the Party Princesses), and he found out about and got really excited. His plan was to call his stripper co-workers and them bring over, along with cocaine. The blow I could, and still can, do without, but strippers I would have welcomed with open arms. But the family matriarch poopooed that idea, telling her nephew he wasn't going to ruin our good time. I'm not exactly sure how bringing over ladies that take their clothes off for a living is a bad idea. C'est la vie.
The nephew was a good conversationalist. We had some good talks on the stoop, until he started talking about white pride. Literacy wasn't the only thing my neighbor picked up in the clink despite the man who taught him to read black. He claimed it wasn't racism but just being proud of his race. I never understood that argument. The concept of black pride stems from generations of people of color being told that they were inferior to caucasians (at best) or treated as nothing better than livestock (at worst). White men, as a collective, have never been through that struggle. We have always been the oppressors, either towards brown-skinned people, women, or each other. So, yeah, I don't fucking buy it but whatever. Be proud. But the second you started dropping N-bombs, former neighbor o' mine, you stopped pretending to be proud of your racial heritage and revealed yourself to be the racist shitbird that you truly are.
So, Rosie, White Power Brian, Ex-Boyfriend, and Kids 1 and 2: while you were perfectly fine neighbors, in your own right, I think I will stick with Bethlynne, Sofia, and Finn.
Monday, March 14, 2011
I posted the last installment of The Ballad Of The Guak yesterday, completing "The Guak, The Origin (Part I)." In the past I post the finished arcs here on GuakTalk, but that seems a bit cluttered and harder to find. It made more sense for me to start yet another world wide web log, just for publishing The Ballad Of The Guak. So that's what I did. You can read The Guak's exploits at...
http://guakballad.blogspot.com
Be excellent to each other.
http://guakballad.blogspot.com
Be excellent to each other.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
The Clash (and the early afternoon after)
Another Thursday, another hangover. I went to my first Clash of The Titans last night. It was my first because they used to be held on Tuesdays, a night that I work (and probably the one night of the week I haven't taken off in ages). I was really excited because it was The Clash vs The Ramones, two of my favorite bands. I was annoyed because it didn't get started until close to 10:30, but I got there before 9:45 so the entry was free so I suppose I have no reason to complain. The show was decent though the band covering The Clash wasn't nearly as good as The Ramones, though in The Clash's defense I would think covering The Ramones is a lot easier job assignment. I left just after midnight just as The Clash were starting their last song. I was bummed that my favorite Clash song wasn't played. "Straight To Hell" is not only my favorite song from The Clash, but it's probably one of my top three favorite songs ever. I'm not one to list and rank such things so I can't be completely positive it's in my Top 3, but it's most definitely up there. So I left and met Jackie at Ruski's, later joined by Krister, for a couple of pints to finish off the night.
I also had an...interesting...text exchange with a lady I have had the fortune of meeting recently. It may have become awkward, though it hasn't on my end. But she has yet to get back to me today so I don't know what's going on with that.
Another Thursday hangover remedied with water, ibuprofen, and a hearty, yet a bit overpriced, Ruski's breakfast. When I got to my favorite watering hole/breakfastery a crazy man was waiting for the bus, with a few things to say to the world...
"Mark is fucking us public school teachers over! X-P-5-H-17!"
"This Bud's for you!"
"God bless the Coast Guard!"
I'm off to work soon, a slave to The Almighty Dollar. Monday and Tuesday were average, if not slightly better than average, days money-wise, but yet I still feel a bit let down last week's hot streak hasn't carried over. Here's hoping the last half of my workweek is fucking tops.
I also had an...interesting...text exchange with a lady I have had the fortune of meeting recently. It may have become awkward, though it hasn't on my end. But she has yet to get back to me today so I don't know what's going on with that.
Another Thursday hangover remedied with water, ibuprofen, and a hearty, yet a bit overpriced, Ruski's breakfast. When I got to my favorite watering hole/breakfastery a crazy man was waiting for the bus, with a few things to say to the world...
"Mark is fucking us public school teachers over! X-P-5-H-17!"
"This Bud's for you!"
"God bless the Coast Guard!"
I'm off to work soon, a slave to The Almighty Dollar. Monday and Tuesday were average, if not slightly better than average, days money-wise, but yet I still feel a bit let down last week's hot streak hasn't carried over. Here's hoping the last half of my workweek is fucking tops.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Catching Up
It seems like forever since I have posted a world wide web log entry. Here's a quick summary of what I've been up to...
Last week I came seriously close to beating my all-time record of most profitable week ever, missing it by a mere $17. That record was set around eight years ago when I drove 60 hours a week (I drive 42 - 45 hours a week now). I'm still a winner in my book (though yours may be a different edition than mine).
Also last week I was a reunited with Black Betty after the two of us were apart for nearly two weeks. She was downed because the heat just wasn't working in her (a real problem during a Maine winter). Once I was finally able to drive her again I was super happy. And I could tell she was too.
A crack whore gave me a little marijuana in exchange for a ride. I haven't smoked pot in over twelve years so I passed it on to a friend. He smoked it and didn't die, which is a good thing. During that same ride the crack whore also put her head in my lap and rubbed my crotch. Interesting fare.
A close friend of mine and are working some shit, most of which stems from me being a judgmental, stubborn ass. The issue isn't really resolved, probably not even close, but I think it will be in time.
I started writing the continuation of my serialized-via-Facebook The Ballad of Harry Guakomoli. It's going to be considerably longer than the first story arc. I'm still working on it, but I'm going to start posting it later today. The last time I didn't post anything until it was completely written, but I think if I did that this time it would still be quite a while until I would be ready to post. It begins the day after Harry Guakomoli dispatched his greatest foe, Sasquatch McGillicuddy, but before that I'll be delving into a little of The Guak's origin story. It also has a lot more of Oslo, the world's smartest cat.
I think that about covers it, or least the parts I feel sharing with the world. By "the world" I mean the half-dozen friends or so that read this.
Be excellent to each other.
Last week I came seriously close to beating my all-time record of most profitable week ever, missing it by a mere $17. That record was set around eight years ago when I drove 60 hours a week (I drive 42 - 45 hours a week now). I'm still a winner in my book (though yours may be a different edition than mine).
Also last week I was a reunited with Black Betty after the two of us were apart for nearly two weeks. She was downed because the heat just wasn't working in her (a real problem during a Maine winter). Once I was finally able to drive her again I was super happy. And I could tell she was too.
A crack whore gave me a little marijuana in exchange for a ride. I haven't smoked pot in over twelve years so I passed it on to a friend. He smoked it and didn't die, which is a good thing. During that same ride the crack whore also put her head in my lap and rubbed my crotch. Interesting fare.
A close friend of mine and are working some shit, most of which stems from me being a judgmental, stubborn ass. The issue isn't really resolved, probably not even close, but I think it will be in time.
I started writing the continuation of my serialized-via-Facebook The Ballad of Harry Guakomoli. It's going to be considerably longer than the first story arc. I'm still working on it, but I'm going to start posting it later today. The last time I didn't post anything until it was completely written, but I think if I did that this time it would still be quite a while until I would be ready to post. It begins the day after Harry Guakomoli dispatched his greatest foe, Sasquatch McGillicuddy, but before that I'll be delving into a little of The Guak's origin story. It also has a lot more of Oslo, the world's smartest cat.
I think that about covers it, or least the parts I feel sharing with the world. By "the world" I mean the half-dozen friends or so that read this.
Be excellent to each other.
Monday, February 28, 2011
"Which Ad Experience Do You Prefer?"
Yesterday I hit up Hulu to watch 30 Rock, and before the program started I was given three choices of advertisements to watch. I seldom pay these any mind; I don't really give a shit about what Toyota commercial I have to sit through. I don't know how many times I click "no" when I am asked if a car commercial is relevant to me, and yet that oh-so-brilliant Ad Tailor still gives me ads for automobiles. Most of the ads on Hulu I find irrelevant, but sometimes I lie and click "yes" because I'm afraid if people don't click "yes" at least some of the time or don't click anything at all Hulu will stop being free. It's already starting to go that way with Hulu Plus, certain shows are only available through that service, and at $8 a month or whatever it's far cheaper than cable (and with less ads), it's a trend I'm not liking. Speaking of ridiculousness, I was watching The Daily Show on Comedy Central and the commercial breaks were two to three minutes long. Really?! That's some bullshit right there. When I want to watch free television on guakbot, I don't want to suffer through the same amount of commercial breaks as if I was watching it on an actual television. Fucking lame.
To get to the point of this world wide web log post, I was given the choice of "Free Popcorn," "Fred Willard," or "Quick File." Fred Willard! If given any choices that include Fred Willard I will go with Fred just about every single goddamn time. A choice between Fred Willard and fellatio might be the sole exception. I get excited every time this amazingly funny man gets some work. Even if it is working for Turbo Tax, which I have no interest in. I still clicked "yes" though.
To get to the point of this world wide web log post, I was given the choice of "Free Popcorn," "Fred Willard," or "Quick File." Fred Willard! If given any choices that include Fred Willard I will go with Fred just about every single goddamn time. A choice between Fred Willard and fellatio might be the sole exception. I get excited every time this amazingly funny man gets some work. Even if it is working for Turbo Tax, which I have no interest in. I still clicked "yes" though.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Sunday Night, Clark and Danforth
Sunday. 9:45pm. I had no cigarettes and Vespucci's closed in fifteen minutes. It was do or die time: do I slap on a nicotine patch or do I buy smokes. Of course I was an idiot and decided I needed tobacco. I put on my coat and sneakers (and pants) and barely made it by five minutes. As soon as I exited the shop there were two drunk gangbanger wannabes walking by. One of them asked "hey, got a cigarette?" I looked down at the full unopened pack. Then I looked up at him and replied "none that I can spare." Lately it seems I can't be out of my apartment five minutes without someone trying to bum money or cigarettes off of me, and it annoys me to no end. As a matter of principle I said no. I found myself walking with them, one in front of me, the other to my left. They both called me homosexual epithets. One said "you can't spare a cigarette? Maybe I can't spare your life." The other called me a "punk-ass nigga" and then noticed my orange Vans and mistook them for jail-issued sneakers. He remarked how I just got out of county and how could I not spare a smoke? When we got to the intersection of Clark and Gray I banged a right onto Gray once it was obvious the young thuglings were continuing down Clark. I really wanted to laugh, which is usually how I react to bullshit bravado, but I didn't. I also wanted to say the following things, but I, probably wisely, decided to keep to myself:
- If you're trying to mooch shit off from other people, particularly strangers, I'm not the punk-ass.
- I couldn't care less about your sexual orientation, but if you're eying my footwear so closely you can tell the color on a dimly lit street, it might not be me who's the "fag."
- If I did just get out of jail, then there's a real possibility I just spent the last of my money on cigarettes so I really can't afford to spare any.
- Jail-issued sneakers don't have laces, poseur.
- If you're trying to mooch shit off from other people, particularly strangers, I'm not the punk-ass.
- I couldn't care less about your sexual orientation, but if you're eying my footwear so closely you can tell the color on a dimly lit street, it might not be me who's the "fag."
- If I did just get out of jail, then there's a real possibility I just spent the last of my money on cigarettes so I really can't afford to spare any.
- Jail-issued sneakers don't have laces, poseur.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Love At First Bite
Love At First Bite
three in a series of Mad Libs
They say the way to a man's heart is through his carotid artery. Try cooking this lilliputian meal full of aphrodisiacs, and you're sure to have him waterboarding for more!
- Start with ironclad oysters on the half opiate.
- Serve a pearl necklace of your favorite champagne. A glass or fourteen (?) will relax him and stimulate his Vietnamese pot-bellied pig.
- Cook lobster and serve with drawn drool. For a side dish, try stalks of sloppy asparagus.
- For dessert, dip fresh Rocky Mountain oysters in a sullen chocolate sauce.
- Finish the meal with a tainted cup of painstakingly rich cappuccino. The caffeine should give him a buzz that will last all fish hook long!
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Breakfast In Bed
Breakfast In Bed
two in a series of Mad Libs
Every man loves to be surprised with breakfast in barnacle. Here's a romantic recipe for schizophrenic pancakes that will appeal to your guy's taste rotary phones and make his cuticle water. First, pout the batter into a mold that is in the shape of an inner thigh. Add chocolate dank nuggets and garnish with ripe, red ninja masks. Serve with a generous helping of ragamuffin. Put everything on a tray and present it to him with a copy of the morning proctoscope and a toxic rose. After he's done fellating, give him an Achilles tendon message. It's a butt-ugly way to start the day. And who knows? He may just decide that he doesn't want to get out of his Windsor knot after all. In fact, he may have a whimsical surprise for you as well!
Friday, February 18, 2011
What A Girl Wants
What A Girl Wants
one in a series of Mad Libs
Do you have a far-fetched fantasy about the perfect Valentine's Day? Drop some hints to your special Chinese finger trap to make your brass knuckles come true! For example:
- If you want him to send you a bouquet of bran muffins mention that your best friend received a dozen red cosmonauts from her fucked up other.
- Tell him your northeasterly job has you working morning, noon, and colostomy bag, and you're superfluously exhausted. He may surprise you with an ostentatious weekend getaway.
- Moan about your sore solar plexus and plant a bottle of massage molten lava by the bedside.
If he's still not getting the hint, send yourself a bouquet of fragrant dong knockers and make him think they're from another stool sample. He'll be so jealous, you'll receive a really great cream filling!
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
My VD
My Valentine's Day was spent just like almost every other Monday: waking up, lounging around for a few hours at Fort Awesome, and then driving Black Betty for ten hours for money. It was good money for a Monday. Nothing out of the ordinary to report save for one ride: I drove a man and his lucky lady to the Denny's on Brighton Avenue. You grab a hold of that one tightly, ma'am, and don't let go!
Sunday, February 13, 2011
My Dawgs and Piggies
My boots are heavy and clunky. My brown work boots are sturdy, warm, waterproof, and, at least to me, aesthetically pleasing. Everything I want in a winter boot. Except for comfort. They're fine, I suppose, but when I put them on around 3:00 to go to work, and don't take them off until 2:30 or 3:00 (or around 5am Saturday mornings), they take their toll. The only thing enjoyable about wearing them is the amazing feeling I get when my when are liberated from their hard leather prison. Then, bushwa!, the sensation is incredible, almost as wonderful as going to the bathroom after holding in a waz for a couple of hours.
If I didn't walk to work I wouldn't wear the boots. At most my feet would get a bit wet, but the blower in Black Betty is powerful, and my moist dawgs would be dried lickety split! But instead I walk, and I'm not walking a mile in snow and slush in sneakers. Yet Friday I said "fuck it" and wore my orange Vans. It's cold out so there isn't much melting , and the sidewalks are, for the most part, dried and cleared off.
So I did it. Some of the sidewalks were just sheets of bumpy ice which made crossing them a tad bit treacherous, but nothing this most nimble of Guaks couldn't handle. There was a bit of slush, but all I did was make my feet just a touch damp.
I totally made the right decision. It was fucking awesome.
If I didn't walk to work I wouldn't wear the boots. At most my feet would get a bit wet, but the blower in Black Betty is powerful, and my moist dawgs would be dried lickety split! But instead I walk, and I'm not walking a mile in snow and slush in sneakers. Yet Friday I said "fuck it" and wore my orange Vans. It's cold out so there isn't much melting , and the sidewalks are, for the most part, dried and cleared off.
So I did it. Some of the sidewalks were just sheets of bumpy ice which made crossing them a tad bit treacherous, but nothing this most nimble of Guaks couldn't handle. There was a bit of slush, but all I did was make my feet just a touch damp.
I totally made the right decision. It was fucking awesome.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Guakie Loves Marcy('s)
January had been a hard month for me; Marcy's, my Sunday afternoon eatery, closes for just about the entire month of January every year.
This year was no exception. My usual Sunday...breakfast?...partners-in-crime, Luke and the Brothers Wilber, had to settle for Becky's. Becky's, which is a perfectly fine, albeit a bit pricey, greasy spoon, is no Marcy's, which serves up some mighty fucking tasty home fries and some kick-ass muffins. The owners, Murray and Jolie, are fun and super nice despite being NASCAR enthusiasts. Dishwasher Sean, you know, that guy from Phantom Buffalo, is always good for at least one geeky conversation per visit. And the waitress, Mikey, oh, Mikey, I believe I confess my love for her every time I'm there.
The boys and I got confused about when Marcy's re-opened, thinking it was a week early. We were really excited that day, so eager to sink our teeth into some delicious motherfucking Marcy's breakfast we agreed to meet there a half hour than our usual time of 1pm. And they were closed. I was sad, so sad I think I cried a little on the inside.
So this past week I wasn't taking any chances. Friday night I drove past the diner to make sure the "closed for vacation" sign wasn't still in the window. To my utmost joy, it was not. We didn't meet a half hour early, we played it cool. And we were welcomed with open arms (well, maybe not Mike). I had an enjoyable coronary-inducing breakfast of hash, sausage, bacon, home fries, a banana walnut muffin, coffee, and water. It was as amazing as I remembered it being!
Sadly, there was a downside to my fanfuckingtastic breakfast experience: some dingus walked off with my winter coat. My winter coat is very important to me because it's winter and I need a coat. Luckily, the guy came back five to ten minutes later with my jacket, which I'm guessing is two sizes bigger than him. And it took him that long to figure it out?! Dummy. Nothing was taken save for my lip balm and Orbit bubblemint chewing gum. But, on the plus side, one of my pockets was stuffed with napkins.
All-in-all though, I had a wonderful time, and I am pleased as punch Marcy's is back in business.
This year was no exception. My usual Sunday...breakfast?...partners-in-crime, Luke and the Brothers Wilber, had to settle for Becky's. Becky's, which is a perfectly fine, albeit a bit pricey, greasy spoon, is no Marcy's, which serves up some mighty fucking tasty home fries and some kick-ass muffins. The owners, Murray and Jolie, are fun and super nice despite being NASCAR enthusiasts. Dishwasher Sean, you know, that guy from Phantom Buffalo, is always good for at least one geeky conversation per visit. And the waitress, Mikey, oh, Mikey, I believe I confess my love for her every time I'm there.
The boys and I got confused about when Marcy's re-opened, thinking it was a week early. We were really excited that day, so eager to sink our teeth into some delicious motherfucking Marcy's breakfast we agreed to meet there a half hour than our usual time of 1pm. And they were closed. I was sad, so sad I think I cried a little on the inside.
So this past week I wasn't taking any chances. Friday night I drove past the diner to make sure the "closed for vacation" sign wasn't still in the window. To my utmost joy, it was not. We didn't meet a half hour early, we played it cool. And we were welcomed with open arms (well, maybe not Mike). I had an enjoyable coronary-inducing breakfast of hash, sausage, bacon, home fries, a banana walnut muffin, coffee, and water. It was as amazing as I remembered it being!
Sadly, there was a downside to my fanfuckingtastic breakfast experience: some dingus walked off with my winter coat. My winter coat is very important to me because it's winter and I need a coat. Luckily, the guy came back five to ten minutes later with my jacket, which I'm guessing is two sizes bigger than him. And it took him that long to figure it out?! Dummy. Nothing was taken save for my lip balm and Orbit bubblemint chewing gum. But, on the plus side, one of my pockets was stuffed with napkins.
All-in-all though, I had a wonderful time, and I am pleased as punch Marcy's is back in business.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
The Ballad of The Guak, Part III: All's Swell That Ends Swell
* To see what the dilly is with this business, please consult my previous post "Secreting creative juices" *
Harry Guakomoli collapsed and landed on the cold asphalt. He was in a fuckload of pain and nearing unconsciousness. This was no way for a hero to go out, like a chump. But he was too weak. Sasquatch would never allow him to get back up. Then a small brown streak appeared from nowhere and Oslo was in the monster's face, attempting to claw out the eyes of the antagonist of this tale.
Harry Guakomoli got the opening he desperately needed. As Sasquatch struggled with Oslo, The Guak pulled himself to his feet, just to see his would-be murderer yank Oslo off his face and drop kick the sidekick. The cat flew through the air howling. The Guak swore he saw a deluge of stomach acid, malt liquor, and partially chewed Nutter Butters erupt from his only friend's mouth as Oslo hurtled away into the night.
Harry Guakomoli swung wildly...and missed...horribly.
Harry Guakomoli cursed himself for blowing his one shot. Sasquatch MacGillicuddy laughed and took a step towards his prey, unaware that his right foot was slathered in the viscous fluid that Oslo was drenched in. The ogre slipped and fell, landing hard on his bum. A burst of adrenaline shot through our hero, who lunged towards Sasquatch.
Harry Guakomoli latched on to Sasquatch's mountain man of a beard and placed a foot on the pitied fool's shoulder. While pressing down with his foot, The Guak pulled up with all of his power. Sasquatch screeched and thrashed about, but it was all for naught. It did not take long for The Guak, drunk on St. Ides and Herculean might, to yank the behemoth's head clean off, a torrent of blood rushed from his slain enemy's neckhole.
Harry Guakomoli took a step back as Sasquatch MacGillicuddy's body became the Mount Vesuvius of sanguinary discharge. The Guak raised Sasquatch's severed head so its eyes were level with his own. "You should totally fuck that skull," Oslo, who of course landed on his feet, suggested. Our hero entertained the thought briefly before he decided to just drop the shaggy head.
Harry Guakomoli felt a hand grab his own. He looked over to see the lovely Yo-Yo Ramimirez standing at his side. "You were soooo brave," she purred, "and I would like to give you a proper hero's reward." The Guak smiled, showing a grin of smashed teeth. "I would like that very much," he replied. "But first I need to throw up these Nutter Butters." The End.
Harry Guakomoli collapsed and landed on the cold asphalt. He was in a fuckload of pain and nearing unconsciousness. This was no way for a hero to go out, like a chump. But he was too weak. Sasquatch would never allow him to get back up. Then a small brown streak appeared from nowhere and Oslo was in the monster's face, attempting to claw out the eyes of the antagonist of this tale.
Harry Guakomoli got the opening he desperately needed. As Sasquatch struggled with Oslo, The Guak pulled himself to his feet, just to see his would-be murderer yank Oslo off his face and drop kick the sidekick. The cat flew through the air howling. The Guak swore he saw a deluge of stomach acid, malt liquor, and partially chewed Nutter Butters erupt from his only friend's mouth as Oslo hurtled away into the night.
Harry Guakomoli swung wildly...and missed...horribly.
Harry Guakomoli cursed himself for blowing his one shot. Sasquatch MacGillicuddy laughed and took a step towards his prey, unaware that his right foot was slathered in the viscous fluid that Oslo was drenched in. The ogre slipped and fell, landing hard on his bum. A burst of adrenaline shot through our hero, who lunged towards Sasquatch.
Harry Guakomoli latched on to Sasquatch's mountain man of a beard and placed a foot on the pitied fool's shoulder. While pressing down with his foot, The Guak pulled up with all of his power. Sasquatch screeched and thrashed about, but it was all for naught. It did not take long for The Guak, drunk on St. Ides and Herculean might, to yank the behemoth's head clean off, a torrent of blood rushed from his slain enemy's neckhole.
Harry Guakomoli took a step back as Sasquatch MacGillicuddy's body became the Mount Vesuvius of sanguinary discharge. The Guak raised Sasquatch's severed head so its eyes were level with his own. "You should totally fuck that skull," Oslo, who of course landed on his feet, suggested. Our hero entertained the thought briefly before he decided to just drop the shaggy head.
Harry Guakomoli felt a hand grab his own. He looked over to see the lovely Yo-Yo Ramimirez standing at his side. "You were soooo brave," she purred, "and I would like to give you a proper hero's reward." The Guak smiled, showing a grin of smashed teeth. "I would like that very much," he replied. "But first I need to throw up these Nutter Butters." The End.
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