Breakfast In Bed

I think the reason I have this blog is the need for an outlet for the emotions and experiences I feel are impossible to lay on even the closest of friends.

The sentiments I capture here are born from the darkest, deepest, most embarrassing and troubling parts of my conscious thoughts.

And, to be honest, they are pretty fucking depressing.

So I'd like to discuss one of life's forgotten, but most sinfully delicious moments: breakfast in mufuckin bed. How does life get any sweeter? How!? Someone that obviously loves you very much has taken it upon themselves to wake up before you, only to quietly create a delicious day making meal andl present it to you the moment you awake from some sweet, loving dream.

Ahhhhhhhhhhh!

We do not deserve these moments in life, none of us! Yet, they happen to us and some how we are unable to savor and cherish them forever. We get caught up in ourselves and get depressed and hopeless, all the while forgetting that someone, sometime, thought enough of us to make us breakfast in bed.

And with any luck, we' might love someone enough to wake up so early.

Some Nights

Some nights I am calm and read before bed,
Most others I rage and t-bone my head;
For reasons I have yet to understand
I silence my brain before I darken my nightstand.
Is it because my sails are sagging unbattered
By blue windy passions that blow forward and backward?
Is it because I perceive no certain direction
To rig my sails for which might blow me to heaven?
Or is it some chink down deep in my armor
Undetected by pride and leading to slaughter?

Words

How many words have you talked out so far?
In 30 short years they might cover up Mars.
The, "How do you do's?" and "How has it been's?"
could travel to China and come back again.
And how many of them were hollow inside,
to keep time a'passin and let byes go on by?
Did you dare to let out the ones you kept close?
The true ones, the love ones--the ones scared you most?
If your heart's filled with words and swellin' with pain,
Talk out the words and make yourself sane.

I'd Rather Not

I'd rather not watch my head get shinier
and I'd rather not look on my father's livered arms.
I'd rather not think those thoughts on the edge of sleep
and I'd rather not know my Gran is on the edge of death.
I'd rather not see that the world is run by thieves,
and I'd like to blot out that I'll never understand.
I'd die not to know why I can't blind your heart
and I'd die twice as hard to forget your heart once was mine.
It would be rather nice to delete all I've learned
and lie ignorant in fields of dark chirping grass.
I'd be rather content if once I hadn't been young
and was never seduced by earthy rhythms sweet,
But I am and I did and we were and it is and you are;
At least it all ends, my patience only stretches so far.

Turin Breaks

If things get real I promise to tell you its all fake
The gestures and genuflects are all planned mistakes
By the time fear takes you over I'll be making my escape
inside of a bottle where its warm and I wait.

Master Debaters

I love a good debate, or Mind Sport, as some like to call it. Muslims and Hindus, Christians and Jews, Democrats and Republicans, Atheists and the faithful, Gushers and Fruit By the Foot...the list goes on and on. Whatever the rift may be, I like to see it settled in the intellectual six sided ring of fire, no holds bar, to the death. As with any sport, I want to see the pinnacle of what it has to offer. And by pinnacle, I mean the debate that would have the most entertainment value, be the most hilarious. So, I propose we bring together a panel of hardcore drinkers and a panel of hardcore weed smoker, endow them with a limitless supply of their weapons of choice, give them a topic and let the comedy ensue. If this isn't the perfect pilot for the 1 A.M. Saturday Comedy Central slot I don't know what is. My question to you, my non-existent readers, is what should that topic be? At the moment I am both drunk and stoned and thus an impartial juror. Make the decision for and hurry the fuck up before I become distracted by some other ridiculous and pointless quandary.

Unholy Sonnet II

Try never to get caught in a lie to yourself
If you like being the picture of perfect mental health.
The invisible fib that you've built your house on
Will vanish the moment you call it in question
And down will come house with its roof laid in dreams.
The hearts of your babies will be gouged out by beams.
Crumpled in rubble you'll struggle to move
To piece back together your house of untruth.
But, what will you stitch your shack upon now
That your face has grown ugly and your God's out of town?
May I venture forth a firm basement floor,
Or some lies that I like for strong basement walls?
When know-it-all strangers ask what I stand for
I tell them, "Knowledge is power and love conquers all."

Whoops?

Dutiful Dad once told me, "Make good habits because bad ones are hard to break.",
But I was sixteen and my ears were turned inside out.
So I shrugged off the angst with cheap hot beer and speedingcarswithmyheadhungout
And stayed up late huffing vodka fumes with a clean homework slate.

Nights now are lived with my one eye closed; moved by the sounds
of crackling aluminum and the sizzle of leaves in stale beer.
A cacophonous collage which propels me the direction: down,
But drowned out by notes strumming burnt heart strings of yesteryear.

And what am I to do against this mounting wave of tainted self?
Whose shadow I've ignored to smile and slobber at the sun.
Yes, I should turn about to bear the brunt of the things I've done,
ignore the leaping in my blood begging me to be marooned in Hell.

Oh well...

Stop Talking.

I talked a lot tonight, of things I knew and things I didn't.
I wanted to be looked well on, not some antiquated fool.
The men towered above me and the women spoke above me
And though they mouthed in grand terms and in important tones
Nothing I heard sparked a flame in my heart, it was all shit.

Ugly Huddle

I huddle with the ugly girls and we decide
That love is the to do of those invited inside.
So we put in our hands and vote to run and hide
Because love is a waste and a hopeful suicide,
Then grow hair trigger funny bones and laugh at drab
But beautiful stranger's jokes so as to seem less sad,
Or develop frumpy tones warning the warm of
The rough and bumpy bones keeping out the harm of love,
Because we know time wasn't and won't be on our side
We view love as a game for fickle, wandering eyes.
But, we the ugly cross our fingers with surprise,
And wear pessimistic masks as our disguise,
Because love has been inbred into our veins,
Why bother trying to steer when its wrapped around our reins?

Love Was Made to forget it

Hey hey baby have you heard the news
I'm the best thing for your mind to use
I'll tell you things and show you love
You're the only thing I'm thinking of

Sit on my throne my queen of cracks
I'll fill you up with hopes and dreams
But after so many days have past
I'll replace your bones with plastic beams

And when we're done and light is off
I'll curse the man you're dreamin of
My love is cold, my jealous hot
I love her thought, she loves me not.

The Wonderment of Buddy Benjamin (Part I)

The ball felt like a lopsided boil in Buddy's hands as he took his first few feeling dribbles. For a split second he thought about exchanging it for another, but as he switched his dribble to his even more awkward left hand he realized that the ball wasn't the problem. It had been months since he could think about any game other than school. But, as he strode onto the court he realized that he couldn't remember one tort from his law class or one adage from his philosophy course. He thought it odd, all the hours he'd smashed his brain against the tiny words on expensive texts hoping to extract an imprint, and yet his mind was as vacant as a lonely fish bowl. The dreaded first shot was surprisingly nothing but net. A residual bit of drunkenness before the undertow of hangover, he assured himself.

Games raged on both sides of his head, he set, focused and concentrated on some sort of follow through. He retrieved the ball. Set, focus, follow through. Swish. He worked up the courage to put the ball through his legs. It felt like a dinner bell ringing. He did it again, this time walking backwards, taunting an invisible defender. A lunge to the right, a switch to his left and a hop step back brought forth a majestic example of how a jump shot should be shot. Straight up, shoulders square, elbow in, wrist snap and purity. For the next hour Buddy danced as if he were alone in his room, surrounded by the questioning eyes of weekend warriors and basketball enthusiasts. The ball was a detachable appendage, as commandable by his brain as his fingers or toes. He told it to go round his back and head, through his legs and down his finger with every type of spin known to physics. He taught it to roll off a glass pane into a metal circle. Buddy used to be a gym rat and in true rat fashion he forced himself to hit five three pointers in a row before releasing himself from the pull of the court.

Later, eyes closed and facing the luke warm beams of shower water face first, he thought only of control. Of both how very little he controlled in his life and, with astonishment, how easily he'd controlled his movements and the ball on the court that night. In every day life he couldn't see three feet in front of his face. Buddy was a bumbler. He bumbled through friendships, schoolwork and family dinners. He bumbled through conversations with his own grandmother. Basketball was one of the few things in life which Buddy was transfigured and transformed into a silken confidence machine. Silken because what he did flowed like satin drying in the wind. It made sense because it was a beautiful sight and it was a beautiful sight because it made sense. Buddy used head fakes better than politicians used lies, spin moves better than they dodged questions and finished quicker than Ted Kennedy on top of an over priced hooker.

Dials spun in his deft hands and the flow was constricted. Eyes soggy, he blindly reached for a gigantic white beach towel and stood numb in the tub basin drying his face and chest. He stepped out of the shower into his own reflection in the mirror which was posing the question nipping at his mind all night. "If I'm so damn good at basketball and so shitty at everything else, wouldn't it stand to reason that other people are just as familiar with the same kind of mind blowing minutia of making others feel small, or taking home a woman, or brainwashing a child. Could they feel the same exhilaration as I do when hitting a shot when they cheat, lie, deceive, falsify or hurt?"

His eyes drifted from his growing stubble up and around to the ceiling as he combed his memory for personalities which might remind him of himself on the court. That confidence, that grace. The ability to predict microscopic changes in another player's center of gravity. How his muscle fibers lept like lightning to the ground to exploit a weakness, an opportunity to drive to the hoop, to score.

Salsa

The salsa was too spicy.

Tortilla chips melted inches before even having been dipped in its red gooey-ness. No one knew who made it, it just appeared one day in a Tupperware jar with a posted note attached to its lid which said, "For the one who knows little and seeks much." Pat assumed it was an odd neighborly gift left as an awkward exchange of amicability from the apartment adjacent to his. He brought it inside and placed it in his brand new General Electric half freezer half fridge with the intention of buying some chips for later on that day. He shuffled on about his day, purchasing goods and making transactions as all the while the salsa radiated next to a jar of blackberry jam in its chilly new abode. It was far too hot.

Pat took his mom's pant suit to the dry cleaners, watered his cactus, cleaned his fish tank and last of all headed off to the Grocer's Garage for a few much needed supplies. In the check out isle his eyes searched the surroundings for something which might make his expression more interesting, when all the sudden his mind was flooded with thoughts of rivers of thick, blood red salsa. He had to have corn chips. He informed the next customer in line of this fact as he dashed towards isle number nine and all its crispy bounty. Uncharacteristically, Pat turned off the too loud stylings of the Beastie Boys as he made the first right turn on the long journey from the G's G to his quiet apartment.

The car was still in drive when the driver's side door flung open, it's occupant holding a bag of Tostitos with all the luminescent brightness of God's personal sitting cloud in his hazelnut eyes. Mindless and drunk with a passion for flavor he forsake the welcoming door frame in favor of a James Bond like barrel role through a large window leading to the living room. With the grace of a drunken peg leg he arose from a pile of shattered glass and hobbled wide eyed into the moon lit kitchenette. His eyes saw a normal refrigerator, but his mind's eye was glowing in a transcendent vision of bubbling salsa concocted with every enticing and tongue fucking pepper our earth has ever produced. Halfway to the fridge his tongue jutted unconsciously from his foaming mouth led by a team of inbred and rabies ridden taste buds with a blood lust for spice. They cooled themselves against the white metallic surface of the fridge door as Pat unbuckled his pants and shucked off his undergarments as if they were aflame. The yellow light basked all about his body like the relieving light of heaven's gates when he pulled open the door to what was sure to be the ultimate taste experience of his pathetic existence. He located the jar and crushed the posted note roosting coolly on its top. The top hit the wall. Hands hit salsa and scooped, giving the glory to his heaving tongue. Lights erupted from the earth around his feet and above his head, cutting him like the blades of a pair of laser beam scissors snipping off a serpents head. Pat felt his body ascending towards some fantastic upside down caramel waterfall which spilled into a tributary of a far off world's waste management facility. Though his body had been obliterated by the fall up the sugary sweet water spout , Pat felt as if he were spinning and rotating at an enormous speed which only seemed to increase exponentially as time's arrow shot ominously towards its target. At his conscious mind's breaking point a searing pain emanating from his mouth snapped him back into reality.

A reality where he lay naked from the waste down, dick first in a small dirt and salsa filled hole in the middle of his freshly sodded lawn.

The salsa was too spicey.

Blurred Vision

I clicked the T.V. off and lay in the darkness. All was still. The street light illuminated hardly anything and I stared at the time staring back at me from the now dead cable box. Bad genes and years of squinting rendered the digital numbers a blur. I tugged on the part of my temple next to my one good eye to pull the numbers 3:49 into focus. I released, splattering the numbers an unrecognizable amber across a dark blue canvas. I tugged again. A minute had passed. Again and again I physically focused my ocular lens until whatever point I was trying to make made sense. Time is unraveling my senses. Where this very room may have been crystal clear, silent and haunting five years before, it was now a hazy streak of unknown. The thought occurred to me that this unraveling may not be isolated to just sight, but touch, smell, hearing, taste and most terrifying of all, true feeling. A mere tug on my temple sent me spinning back through time when both the lens of my eye and of my heart weren't wrecked by experience. An inevitable sadness washed over me as I brought my hand from my face, sinking back into the blur. At that moment I decided I needed a contact, both for my eye and my heart. I have been perceiving the world with blurred vision and blurred feeling for far too long and I know only of a remedy for my eye. Corrective vision for the heart can not be bought in stores, it has to be home made, whittled day by day with tedious care. One slip and the the glass shatters, the heart breaks and with it the body and conscious mind. All these things rushed through my mind as I looked lazily at my streaking surroundings in the dark of my living room.

Confidence

I have very little.

I don't feel bad about it. I feel justified and bewildered.

Only when I'm disillusioned or drunk do I ever project anything resembling confidence. I honestly think these are the only states where confidence can justifiably, yet falsely, breed and take hold in a person. I saw a post on Gawker tonight titled "All the Wrong People Have Self-Esteem". This couldn't be more true. People who, in my tiny opinion, have their head on straight and see existence as it actually is are rarely confident. Why would they be? What would any rational and reasonable person plant a seed of confidence in? God? He seems to be the most popular earth in which to grow the false flora of confidence , and why not? If ever lasting paradise awaited all of us who were able to follow 10 simple rules the world would be full of happy people. But most people, whether they want to admit it or not, don't believe in this proposition. Thus, a whole lot of us are pretty sad most of the time. Not that sadness is a bad thing, just a manifested reflection on the scary mysteries of life.

Confidence can never be rooted in the unknown.

Its no wonder that when I look on really confident people I see someone who has invested all their thoughts and energy in the tiny pictures that ours minds can take, meaning the petty things which make our society go round. Good jobs, attractive spouses, sleek cars, rule following, healthy teeth and skin, nice, pressed clothing= societal norms= reaffirmation of values= confidence.

To me, confidence reeks of submission, of unimaginative conformity, of arrogance. Weird as it may sound, we should all be in a constant state of bewilderment. I love the word bewilder. For me it sums up the state of human existence. Sure, our best and brightest, like Newton and Hawking, have figured out some things about the abyss around us, but for the most part we are all bewildered newborns in the dark.

As I write this a tinge of dissent has been growing within me. It is telling my digits to tell you that certain types of confidence are real and true. This tinge has grown as my four fingers fluttered on this board of letters and I am forced to admit that some people, some people's love and hope can't help but bare the fruit of confidence from my cynical winter tree of a mind. This confidence grown from the purest form of the human spirit is something that should be celebrated. I haven't seen too many examples of it lately, but I do know it exists, so I can't discount it.

This confidence is seen in times of trouble and tragedy. When our friends are at wits end and we reach down to our deepest depths to comfort and reassure them, thats the confidence I believe in. When men and women run in to burning buildings to save total strangers, thats the confidence I believe in.

Confidence in ourselves, to me, is vanity, but confidence in each other is the best aspect of humanity.

Random Thoughts From Within a Bath Robe

A few things: Krogerering at midnight is the best type of Krogering. What would your entrance music be if you were a Major League Baseball player? Wouldn't you rather have your dying words be a hilarious joke or gag than some prolific statement about love?

Let's go.

I'm an avid Kroger shopper. I don't feel comfortable in any other grocery store. The Pig seems a little run down, Whole Foods is great, but the yuppie/smug factor is a big time turn off. Kroger is not too hot, not too cold, but just right. My favorite thing about Kroger? Well, besides the sheer volume and range of delicious produce, it has to be that most Kroger's stay open all damn day and all damn night. If I want a cup of sliced watermelon, some Hot Pockets and a home pregnancy test at 3:45 A.M. by God I can get them all in one convenient, well lit location. I can't think of any event that kills my boredom and hunger/thirst/hygienic needs better than a late night visit to that big blue sign in the sky. Peace and comfort envelope me as I stroll through the aisles in my flannel jim jam pants and flannel bed shirt usually not having a clue what I'm searching for, but with the utmost confidence that I'll know it when I see it. Last night it was a plastic cylinder of creamy chicken noodle soup and a six pack of YooHoo(the blog's spell checker is advising me that I've misspelled BooHoo, making me long for an ice cold bottle of BooHoo. If only it existed.) When I'm Krogering late night I feel like a grown up kid all alone in a candy store for adults. There are all sorts of fancy vegetables and cheeses, not to mention a respectable selection of domestic and imported beer and wine. Sometimes I just hang out by the olive bar and gawk. One day I'll be rich enough to fill a whole Kroger sack full of mozzarella cheese balls and stuffed mushrooms...one day. One day I'll be able to push a buggy full of goat cheese, Havarti and Dom Perignon through the check out aisle and pay in straight cash. These are the thoughts that bedazzle and torment my mind as I peruse the aisles with a basket full of bologna and Iron Kids bread. One day I'll supermarket sweep that beautiful bitch, but until then I think I can be satisfied pondering my culinary possibilities under the harsh florescent glow of the lights in Kroger at midnight.

More musings to follow.

Freedom in Heights

We retold what had just happened with such exuberance and excitement that we conjured up some sort of time portal leading to exactly 9 hours in the past. Suddenly we were the three bored and unimaginative douches we'd been at 10 o'clock the previous night. And we wanted to party. I can't remember who suggested that we go back on the roof, but I'm sure it was Roll. He's the one who disappeared downstairs only to reappear seconds later with a satchel of various beers.

Walking out on that roof was like hopping on the surface of the sun. It was 8 o'clock, but it wasn't morning. The sun was high in the sky and my newly naked tit skin could feel itself cooking. Our flesh was roasting, our brains were toasted and for the life of us we could not stop giggling. We sizzled on shingles like three sun glass clad pieces of bacon sautéing in gin and freedom. I pulled my shorts into thong position, giving my upper thighs their first taste of vitamin D. This was met with groans from Roll and a purring sound from T-Nasty.

We laid there soaking up sunshine and sipping on sin until the pure freedom of the situation overwhelmed me. I hopped up and gave a drunken homage to Charles Chaplin. I did precarious acrobatic maneuvers on every corner of the roof, diving and tripping, rolling and collapsing, mooning imaginary voyeurs and dancing with fictitious maidens. In the midst of my madness I spotted some painters hard at work on an adjacent roof top. I screamed for them to look our way, then showed them my ass cheeks. Moments later I noticed the faithful congregation of High Street Unitarian Univeralist Church filing in to their Sunday service. They then got a pre-church sermon on why God was dead before feasting their eyes on my supple buttocks.

By this time, my liberation from the dictate of society was nearly complete. All that was left for me to do was fully expose myself on the highest point of the roof. So, I went inside and grabbed the afore mention poster of George Costanza and whipped off my undies. I then scaled the remaining portion of the roof and jangled my dangle in the cool morning breeze with the poster of Costanza draped around my shoulders.

Jealousy is a stinky cologne.

Next Part...

To fully understand the comedy of this scene I need to describe the condition of our apartment when the coppers strolled through. Monday through Thursday I would classify our place as barely livable; meaning the urge to clean up/get the fuck out of there is palpable, but not overwhelming. The first half of Friday is usually the cleanest the place ever gets because, who knows, someone who actually gives a shit about appearances and sanitation might drop by and that person might have boobies.

5 o'clock Friday evening marks the point when things start going down hill. It starts with the beer cans and solo cups and by Sunday we're sitting in a crack den littered with newspapers, dirty hypodermic needles and hula hoops. We try to do some light surface cleaning on the subsequent days of the week to make Friday's clean-up a little more bearable, but for the two or three weeks preceding the weekend in question we just said "Fuck it, we like wallowing in filth. This is good." For you Weather Channel junkies it was like we had a three week shit blizzard and were two feet deep in a thick blanketing of garbage. And not just garbage; see we like to steal things, usually when intoxicated, so we have random shit like 15 foot Mike Huckabee signs and various bar paraphernalia strewn about. This is what six officers of the law had to navigate though to get to Travis' room.

Oh, God, Travis' room.

Number one, he sleeps on a giant suede bean bag set up nicely in front of a 65-inch HD television. Behind the bag is the same exact red metal bunk bed you had at age 8. The room actually looks like something a wealthy 8-year-old would design. It's got a tiny trampoline so The Smell can do his cardio and a dress up closet stocked with riches from the Salvation Army and Good Will.

Wait did I say an 8-year-old? I meant an 8-year-old with a severe, severe drinking problem.

At the time of this incident we estimate there were over 100 beer cans and bottles in various stages of emptiness and three handles of different types of liquor chilling in every nook of the room. On a side note, T-Nasty's room has another odd feature, or features. His room has six closets. One huge one and five little ones. He likes them, though. He's always going in and coming out of them. Odd, I know, but when we ask what he's doing all he'll say is "Practicing.", whatever that means.

Anyway, you get the picture, we're slobs.

As the coppers are trudging up the stairs I start searching the hodge podge of empty take out boxes and clothing on the floor for a shirt to cover my finely sculpted chest and abdominal region. I want to put the policemen and dyke at ease and if my naked torso screams anything its intimidation. I get the shirt on just as--lets say Officer Leslie-- waddles in the room with five smug motherfuckers with badges. To be honest much of what happened next is a blur. I don't know if the reality of the situation set off an adrenaline explosion in my brain or if I jostled loose a hidden pocket of gin somewhere when I ran to Roll's room, but my head was spinning.

Macon's finest launched their investigation cautiously with questions such as "Is that how you get to the roof?" Yes. "Have you gentlemen been drinking." Heavily. "We're you drinking on that roof?"

Seeing where this line of questioning was going we informed the officers that we were drunk, not 3-years-old and that we had indeed been drinking on the roof and may have become over exited by the awe inspiring realizations which witnessing our circular blue spacecraft rotate into brilliant beams of sun light had thrust upon us.

At least thats what we tried to say. In actuality I think we said, "Does there really need to be six, seven...five...SIX! policemen in here right now! Do you really not have ANYTHING better to be doing than giving us SHIT!" And so on and so forth. Travis reached the breaking point when a young, tall officer who we even now refer to as Rook broke the case wide open with his observation, "Well, those beers didn't drink themselves." To which Travis said, "No shit! We did, but just because you see empty beer cans doesn't mean they were all drank in the last 24 hours!!!!" You may think I'm trying to make myself look better by adding all these curse words to what we said. You would be wrong. Normally we would have been civil, but even after we'd admitted to causing a ruckus and apologizing these six mongoloid crime fighters wanted to stay and chat about the general appearance of our, of OUR apartment and they wanted to do it with thinly veiled insults that only their unfuckingbelievably clever minds could ever catch. Travis responded with the classically exasperated line, "It isn't against the law for me not to clean up after myself, is it!?" No, Travis, it is not.

Finally after winning the battle of wits with the six uniformed high school drop outs in ambled their leader who was probably lagging behind after getting hung up on how to operate our door knob. At my breaking point, I blurted out, "Do you really not have anything better to do right now?" A valid question since we live in Macon a.k.a. Georgia's ghetto. His reply caught me off gaurd. He stopped, stuck his thumbs into his gun belt, cocked his head at the ceiling and seemed to be earnestly pondering the question. He then swiveled on his heels to face me and said, "Slow morning."

With that, all the tension in the air went right out the window. King cop asked us about our majors, dyke cop tried to lick Travis' vagina and Rook commented on a poster of George Costanza tacked to the ceiling. They eventually filed on out, leaving us with a warning not to go back on the roof and to laugh our asses off while giddily retelling a story which had happened just three minutes in the past.

This is taking so long to tell so I'm going to have to finish up later.

We went back out on the roof.

Schmoked Meat!?!?

I'm hammered. It's the only way I can be true to this secret/public diary posting. I really want to write about the amazing diversity(old wooden ship) thats been going on at my apartment the last 2 days, but I I don't have time to discuss the wrench toting Mexican toddler with matches (a.k.a Section 15) and the Scotsman. I gotta talk about the life changing experience that was Prague. Pronounced Pra-gooey for you public school wankers.

You know what? Fuck it, I can make this one gigantic analogy.

The best way I can describe what happened to me in Prague is to tell you a story which rendered me, for a short period of time, in the same state of mind I was for my entire stay in the Czech Republic. Two stories in one, more bang for your boredom.

Last weekend I went to a party celebrating the Chinese New Year (thanks again Tie and Hang out Nazi) and partied till the booze was drunk and the fire was all burned out. Me and T-Nasty proceeded to walk home and build our nest on the roof to wait for the sun and his two scoops of raisins. We were equipped with the essentials. Gin, tonic and limes? Check. I-Pod complete with speakers, loaded with sunrise type tunes? Check. An unhealthy disregard for other people's sleeping patterns and powerful vocal chords? Check!

Watching the sun rise to the flaming lips was right up there with the first time I did ecstasy, you should try it some time. We've all learned that we are spinning precariously on a relatively tiny blue marble that orbits a ball of flaming gas, but that lesson really does not hit home until you've seen the sun creep over the horizon while pickled in gin. My instinctive reaction was to howl like a fucking werewolfbansheedemon in the most humble and dumbfounded manner possible. So thats just what I did. Travis even joined in with his own breed of howl.

Across the street someone tediously training themselves to walk or talk again at the rehabilitation center heard this primordial yarp and had a health care official alert the authorities.

Having just washed down bear claws masticated by ape like mandibles with large amounts of coffee, they no doubt sped, holsters unbuttoned to our humble abode. The Padge was going googley eyed in his rooftop lawn chair when I spotted not one, not two, but three squad cars parking across the street by the rehabilitation center. I instantly freaked, hopped up and crawled inside to wake up the only somewhat sober person in the house.

As I tripped my way across Travis' war zone of a room the doorbell rang. "Fuck!", I said and double timed it to The Smell's room. The Smell sleeps like a hibernating brown bear who receives a daily anal suppository of NyQuil. I practically had to give him brain damage shaking him to get him awake. I explained that the Police were at the door and he needed to talk to them because my gin soaked mind could only formulate the phrase, "Hey, man, I got a lighter if you got a cig.", and that sentence would have gotten me nowhere with the fuzz, ya know?

So Roll throws on a holey T to complement his flannel boxer shorts and sleepily wanders downstairs to answer the door. Waiting there is 4 cops lead by a squaty dyke bitch who wants to know how to get to the roof. Roll motions her to come in and starts back up the stairs to T-Nasty's room where he and I are waiting like two fuck ups in a middle school principals office.

Fuck, I feel I'm on a roll here, but I am too exhausted to finish this story and connect it to my Prague adventure right now. I'll finish this tomorrow night. (Death.)

Babes in Beerland: Part Tři

May 19, 2007 at 8:00 AM was the thirstiest moment of my whole life, yet my body had and will never want to expel liquid any worse. This is my one and only memory from that day until 2 o'clock. The posse decided it would be best to nurse our throbbing melons with some fresh salty cliff air, so we took a short train to the island of Howth to relax. We walked around looking at all the pretty things, like weird new plants we'd never seen before and humongous cliffs that dropped hundreds of feet to the ocean. It was great. I think we all felt we were seeing Ireland for the first time even though we'd been there for over 36 hours. I wrote a poem about it. It was pretty gay.

Today we saw the coast
It was the freshest air I've ever breathed
So green, so pure
I hope my beginnings began there

Fish & chips are fish & chips
Guinness is still Guinness
put them together in an Irish pub
and you'll feel Irish as fuck

The hangman had the upper hand
but dawn became the day
we saw a book so old and fine
my pubes turned halfway gray

The Book of Kells was a tedious task
and I bow to the monks who wrote it
but 9 Euro is far too much for a page of Christian bullshit

On to Prague we four go to understand not one word
but beer be the worlds mutual language and our voices will be heard

Oh yeah, we also went to Trinity College before heading to the country to see the Book of Kells. That thing some serious patience and skill, too bad the Bible is poppycock. Sorry monks, better luck next life.

We had some fish and chips and a few Guinni(?) at a cool little pub in Howth and headed back to stinky Dublin. Needless to say we were all pretty tuckered out, but we pressed onward, headed to bar town and tried to recreate our magical first night. Nope. We might have drank 3 beers and called it a night.

The next day we had about 5 or 6 hours to see stuff before we hopped a plane to Prague. The day started ominously when Nathan had a frighteningly awkward exchange with a French dude at our hostel. Nathan had just woken up and was trying to put on his pants when this guy gruffly mumbles at him. Not knowing what he said, Nathan ignores him. The guy then stares Nasty down and blurts out "I said , Good morning!", to which Nathan reciprocated with a squeak. It was much more intense than it sounds, trust me. It was also a sign of things to come.

After the three amigos had breakfast and I got dressed we visited St. Patrick's Cathedral, which had Johnathan Swift's death mask in a glass case. I'd never seen or heard of a death mask, so I was pretty creeped out when I read it was a plaster cast of a person's face immediately following death. I could not stop looking at it.

All that stuffy church air made us thirsty so we made like the Irish on a Sunday morning and went to the pub. Robbie and I broke from our steady diet of Guinness and Balmers cider and each got a Kilkenny Red, sat down and tried to make sense of the Cricket match on the tele. Flabbergasted, we asked a young Indian looking Brit what in the blue hell was going on. He gave it his best shot, but after five minutes of explaining rules he gave up in favor of critiquing our appearance. Apparently tattered jeans, t-shirts and patchwork facial hair is not a good look over there. Guess the whole slacker mentality never came to roost in Europe.

We then packed up at the hostel and got a cab to the airport. When we told the cab driver we were going to Prague he began to weave horrible tales about beautiful Czech women who seduce young travelers and hand them over to robust, furry men who demand large sums of money. All very disconcerting. Nevertheless, we were exited to be going somewhere completly removed from our own culture. That excitement was quickly replaced with fear and helplessness.

Our Goodbye was an angry good morning
and an intense stare to boot
we stumbled around St. Patrick's house
feeling a bit like four mutes

One mere glance at Swift's death mask
and my blood ran cold as ice
That solemn, grave and silent face
would turn strong men to mice

One last pint of farewell brew
and we need to shave our faces
Our whiskers are shameful, our goatees disasters
which bring our families disgraces.

In Prague await beautiful sirens
who want not love but Euros
When they bat their eyes and wiggle their asses
we must reply, "Fuck you, Ho's."

But of this planet's people, the Czechs drink the most
so we tip our cups and raise our glasses to utter a hearty "Prost!".

Life is a Game

Start right here and roll the dice
move four spots for being nice
whore yourself and roll again
bend your soul to make a friend

Lay your spades in patterns pretty
trump your conscience, take the kitty
Hearts are left in Baltic bliss
Risk the kill, not a kiss

Pick a card and read the words
give them strength with faith unstirred
Pass the point and get the dough
Purchase peace for final throws

Shoot for ladders, snakes and all
Heads of class know how to crawl
The game of life's an easy win
Just trade your self to fit in.

Emo Poems Continued...

The Sun came out today,
Fuck metaphors, I mean that fiery orange ball

The frost thawed from my brain
and despite myself, I was happy.
I had no choice.

Just a little warmth and a little light
made me feel more than alright

The back of my brain took a stretch and a yawn,
Told my ass to get a move on.

My nose perked up and sniffed again
taking in old forgotten friends.

My ears thought, "What a tease, birds chirping in the trees. Don't they know this will not last, that their feathers will be ruffled by another wintry blast?"

And if my ears are of the prophetic sort and tomorrow turns gray and that bitter wind returns, will everything be O.K.?

Or,

Will I sink again into the folds of my bed? Drown my mind? Fall further behind? Or will this moment in the sun be enough to carry me through and stave off the rust.

Repetitive Emo Poem

this is how I twist and shout
this is how my guard lets down
this is how my pain seeps out
this is what I'm all about

this is how I burn white light
this is why my sheets feel tight
this is how I cry at night
this is why I shrink inside

this is why I hate myself
this is meaning of self help
this is whats been put on shelf
when you've traded will to melt

Flannel ain't got Shit on Goose Down

One night I dreamed I was ensconced in a flannel hammock.
Though bitter cold nipped all about my checkered cocoon I was as warm as toast.
Suddenly my dreaming self recalled his own dream, one of rigid chill, of discomfort.
But as the bubble inside the bubble grew thin and weak, and sub-sub conscious eyes began to flutter, warm flannel was layered over my shivering body.
The bubble burst and I was a glowing coal.
Through a small hole in the fabric I saw shirtless and pant less figures smiling down upon me.
My eyes frantically searched their faces for familiarities before they were washed away by the smoky cold breath of some lurking predator. I darted from face to face and though I was already red with warmth, I blushed, realizing I was in the presence of flannel royalty. King Borland and Arch Duke Vedder neither flinched or shivered as the tidal wave of frozen breath lurched over them. Prince Nirvana threw himself headlong into the mist. Count Young and Lucas the Sorcerer simply turned their backs as the ice cloud crystallized their bodies. Horrified, I burrowed into the rows of flannel as ice axes and frosty barbed wire battered the soft walls of my shelter. The barrage passed and all was still. Then, a sickening crackling and snapping of flannel ripped through the calm. My muscles recoiled as layer after layer of flannel shattered like lake ice. My mind, unprepared for what horror would surely consume me, forced itself back into consciousness. I did not get out of bed that day.

Someone Should Start a Band Using Only Banjos and Steel Drums

Someone should start a band using only banjos and steel drums.

Edit: Some songs could have xylophone, steel guitar or hand chime accompaniment. That would be good too.

Names That are Dead

Something occurred to me tonight as I sat watching the closing credits of First Blood (a.k.a Rambo I), some names are over. As the names raced up the screen an idea started smoking in my mind. It burst into flames when I saw the name of the movie's Hog Handler Hubert Oaks. Some names are fucking dead. Gone. Finito. Bill, done. Donald, nope. Fred, yeah right. Nancy, not ever. Don't even talk to me about Gertrude. Every Gertrude there was has one foot in the grave or is six feet in the earth. How does this happen? How do names go from in vogue to names like....DICK!? Yeah, Richard isn't shitty enough, lets change it to DICK. "Richard, what's happening!?"

How many 82 year old Ethans do you know? 62 year old Scott's? How bout a 17 year old Don? Is this phenomenon being studied in some sociology class somewhere? Should I start production on the documentary stat?

I plan on getting to the bottom of this thing sometime soon, but until then I will be cataloging the names of the deceased names here. Feel free to make suggestions.

Gotta start with:
Gertrude
Nancy
Fred
Hugh
Beatrice
Joan
Gene
Jean
Lesley
Leslie(born to play softball and dip)
Marty
Mort
Mortimer(born to undertake)
Arthur
Theodore(this one should come back)
Ebenezer
Fucking Judy
Don
Phyllis
Herbert
Herb
Gary( this has to be a recent development, but do you know a Gary under 35?)
Ray
Albert
Al
Jack( according to Travis, Jack was the Ben of the 50's. I agree, laughing my ass off.)
Pam
Jerry
Winston
Walter
Larry
Terry
Barry
Bobby( for some reason this name pisses me off, if you are named Bobby chances are I am going to secretly hate you for no reason.)
Billy
Willy
Nelly
Randy
Harry!?
Penny
-y in general
Constance
Conny
Sal
Bob
Archibald( I have to admire this one for its intrinsic awfulness. Archibald and Ebenezer deserve each other.)
Clyde(this one should never have died. Clyde Suplex Smith...I like it.)
Brenda
Norman
Norm
Carla
Carl
Karl
Vera(another one that should never have gone away. Vera is a sexy, sexy name.)

O.k, I'm exhausted. I'll keep my eye peeled for others.

(P.S. Bible names like Moses and Ezekiel and Malachi are out of consideration because they are so fucking dead its just ridiculous. )

I'm really only considering names common in America, but one German name has to be on this list. Adolf was pummeled out of existence by Hitler. He totally ruined that name forever. Way to go, assface.

Robbie has suggested Leonard and Gerald. Lets think about these nominees. I can not honestly say that I know a Leonard, Leo or Gerald. In the world of sports I know of Gerald Wallace and not a single Leonard. But, come to think of it Robbie, I only know as many Geralds as I do Robbies. One. Robbie Keane and Robbie Stienbvroidhrgoi or whatever. So, your plan to execute Leo and Gerald has backfired and it's now your name which is on the chopping block. Don't make me do this, hit me up with some examples of your boyish name fool.

Our powers grow stronger....

I'm not sure where to pick back up with this, so...here's an awful poem:

In Ireland the Guinness flows like wine
most of it into my belly
Last night I won a drinking contest
And jigged to the sweetest tunes
while watching some skank ball kick a buffoon

Where is my mind?
I'm sorry journal, this sucks ass

Perhaps I should have passed on the grass
No. It put me to bed when Guinness was overtaking my head

A drunken Indian thought his beer was a gavel
and sprinkled the bar as his brain came unraveled

I forgave him, the Pogues were playing and I was full of happy drink
I. Love. Ireland.

The setting for the poems action was Dublin's famous Temple Bar district, which is fucking awesome. That one night of stout pounding, pub crawling mayhem fulfilled my wildest fantasies about drinking with the Irish. What I think city planners set out to do was create, as best they could, a booze hound's Utopia. Every building for blocks and blocks is a pub. No art galleries or pocketbook depots, just beautiful pubs filled with beer and yelling.

I want to take a few lines to thank a young Irish skank for setting the mood for the evening. As we and some random hostel folk approached the bars our eyes were drawn to this Irish rose screaming at some poor guy who had no idea of what was about to happen to his junk. Random skank was making such a scene that all 7 or 8 of us stopped in our tracks to watch as she cocked her black, size 10 1/2 combat boot back and smushed it deep into her beau's loins. At that moment we reacted like a rabies ridden kick-off coverage team and tore off cackling into ultimate inebriation.

The rest of the nights details are sketchy at best. I have flashes of The Porterhouse and its delicious porters and amazing one man band. I remember being thrown out of a bar for talking Braves baseball with a Mets fan. I remember a highly intoxicated and overzealous Indian yuppie touching women and hammering a mug of beer on a wooden guard rail in a bar. Most of all, I remember Oliver St. John Gogarty's. It's a pub. No. It's the pub. I have no idea what time it was when we got upstairs to hear some authentic Irish music, it had to be 4 or later. I can only be sure of one thing; we jigged so hard the Earth nearly shit its pants. The pure joy of being hammered in Ireland, surrounded by happy people while jigging to the Pogues was almost too much for me. Unfortunately, so was the next morning.

I vaguely remember walking back to our hostel and to this day none of us are sure how in sweet baby Jesus' name we found it. I do remember that when we got back I hung outside to smoke a cig while the crew headed to bed and was accompanied by a mysterious woman who offered me a joint. Not wanting to seem rude I accepted and...I woke up. Naked. With an intense throbbing pain surging up from a vein in my ball sack into my stomach. I freaked out, not knowing where I was and threw off my sheets. Bad idea. Suddenly I was sprawled nude on a cot while six strangers stared, mouths agape, at my disfigured testic....nah I'm just kidding. I smoked the joint and zombie hobbled to my bed with nary a scratch on my coin purse.

To be continued...

Poems in Beerland

I took the greatest trip of my life this past summer. Me and three amigos in the course of a month visited Dublin, Prague, Munich, Rome, Cinque Terre, Interlaken, Amsterdam, Bruegge and Paris. We played a lot of games to pass the time spent on plains and trains, our favorite being the sport of drunken chess, but when these games got a little dull we wrote down whatever hazy memory was left in our head from the previous night in a bunch of journals my Mom gave us. I decided to choose one form of expression and stick with it. My choice: the poem. I am not good at poetry, but I decided to spread my wings a little. I thought I'd post them here with a bit of explanation before I inevitably lose my journal.

The day of departure was fucking flabergasting. I-75 was in gridlock all the way back to the Cartersville exit because some asshole decided to have one of the most horrific accident in recent memory. Some people can be so selfish. Our flight to Dublin was cancelled due to bad weather about the time our sealtbelts were fastened and our tray tables were in their upright and locked position. We spent the next 4 hours rushing from gate to gate trying to get on another flight to no avail. At our lowest point, when we found out we would have to wait until the next day to leave, our spirits got an enourmous boost.

Traffic Jam, gaint ham-
burger made me full.
Waiting in the rain
I want Guinness

A meager start...but a start nonetheless. Later that day...

Deltanental confuses
So thirsty for opaque gold
line after line makes us moan and whine
I want beer
What's this!?
Old white woman brings young black woman the crucial clue
We go tomorrow, goodbye sorrow
Hello HumanHighlight reel
NIQUE!!! recognizes our existance
Slam dunked a smile on our faces and saved the day.

As you can see, we got to meet the great Dominique Wilkins, who frankly appeared stoned on pills. I spotted him and then watched as he left his phone and ticket on a ticket counter. Nathan grabbed his gear and returned them to him. He thanked us and we took pictures of him while he wasn't looking. Awesome.

Will's daddy picked us up and we spent a relaxing night at his house drinkin a few beers and watching the Sun's get jobbed by Big Shot Bob. I must have masterbated six times in Will's brother's bed. Just kidding Will's brother. Only twice.

ANYWAY...the next entry is from the following day when we finally do make the trip. Unfortunatly I have to sit like 15 rows away from the thee amigos inbetween an old woman and an odd man. I got the shaft because I was making a last second pit stop before we boarded and thats when the trio figured out that one person was going to have to sit alone. That person was me. Despite this my spirits are high and the poem reflects this.

SO here's the scoop, I had to poop
But could not get it done
And all the while in line single file
my friends were having fun

A book betwixt two ends am I
Smashed for 7 long hours of flight
But this task would be my delight
If the drink cart would come and get me tight

Mojitos, screwdrivers, whiskey and rum
I hope that girl has herpes, Will, you're a bum.
Ireland, here I come.

I forgot to mention that Will was sitting next to a stunningly beautiful woman and (understandibly) refused to ask here if she minded switching seats with me. Nate and Robbie asked the people next to them but they refused. I wouldn't have asked her either, Wilmo.

At this point my enteries have one of two tones: drunk or hungover. See if you can determine which state I'm in while I write my first entry in Ireland from a pub on top of the Guinness brewery.

We tower above Irish people
So drunk and oblivious
I lost my camera
Beer.
This town smells of Butt soup
I'd eat some
Snap into a Guinness!!!
How can we walk home with so much beer in the gut?
Say a prayer for my cock.
Bye Bye.

Wow. WOW. Take a handful of jet lag, a pinch of exauhstion and a heap of stout, mix them together and try to write a poem. I dare you!! You won't because you're all too scared. Too scared it could never live up to that masterpiece above.

I'll write more later...it gets wierder.