1. if you spend your weekends at a bar that features three kind of fries (including sweetpotato and truffle oil) and a photobooth, you don't get to quote bukowski at me.
2 if you have never worked at or been inside a factory, you don't get to quote bukowski at me.
3. if you make your living as a videographer, photographer, painter, or sculptor, and do not work a day job (see rule 2), you don't get to quote bukowski at me.
4. if you cannot name at least five men over fifty that drink and smoke and do it in your presence from time to time, you don't get to quote bukowski at me.
5. if you've ever worn a hat that came from a department store, you don't get to quote bukowski at me.
6. if you use twitter/blogspot/livejournal/tumblr to quote bukowski at me, you are an idiot.
5. if you're in your early twenties and your failed relationships with women are based on drunken one-night stands with art institute and metro community college girls that wear fedoras, then wake up and realize you're a drunken idiot pretending to be romantic to hide your horrifying twenty-something insecurities, you don't get to quote bukowski at me.
quote ke$ha. that's what you are.
and meet me in the back with the jack at the jukebox.
seriously,
fuck you.
10.13.2010
10.08.2010
typetrigger serial 2: detective story.
wish i had gone:
For Christmas she gave me a new hat, a dinosaur ornament, and a card filled with lies. I got her a .38 special.
When I woke up with the barrel of the .38 lodged in my right nostril I realized I pry shoulda taken that New Year's Cruise with Sally. She'd bought her boy an extra ticket anyhow, hadn't given mine away. Apparently that woulda been too much. Said she knew I needed a break and going on that cruise with 'em would prove we could still work together, we could still be friends. She said it'd mean the world to 'er Johnny.
Her and I made a decent team, but we sure in the hell don't make good friends, and the only thing I owe Johnny is precisely one cheap whiskey and one left hook, not in that order.
I ain't never been a very lucky guy anyhow.
Dad was a mean ol' lug liked to slap my mom around, and Mom liked taking it, 'til the day she didn't. She put five slugs into his brain and one into his balls. Then she reloaded and put five in his balls and one in his brain. Seems inefficient to me, but that's a thing I guess broads are known for. Kicked around foster homes 'fore endin' up with my uncle Sam, a hero cop turned two-bit hood turned cheap P.I. when he realized tailin' around rich wives of richer cuckolds could keep him in rye. I've never been a big drinker, so I can afford to be a little more discerning, thus my confusion at Sally's .38 makin' it's way from my nostril to my eye while I try blinkin' away my scotch hangover.
they improvised:
The hand holdin' the 38 was attached to the biggest lug I ever seen. Guy musta been Samoan or somethin'. Wasn't sure. So I asked him. "You Samoan?"
"Only sometimes," he said.
You're gonna wanna shut up," he said.
People are never up for a good conversation this early in the morning.
"You're crushin' my legs," I said.
"You're about to be dead," he replied, "so you just need to live with it for a bit."
"That ain't your .38."
I know Sally pretty well so I'm pretty sure this guy don't have her gun without being damn persuasive and I sure doubt she gave it to him for this.
Last New Years Day before she left with Johnny for good, Sally showed up drunk at the office. Collapsed at the doorway, crawled her way inside to my desk and before she passed out told me she I was all she thought about, that she was in love with me, that Johnny knew and couldn't handle it, but she was so in love with me that it scared her and she had to leave with Johnny to get away from it, to escape. A few months ago she came by to apologize, said she was mad I took her name down offa the office's masthead, said she wanted revenge and what she told me that day was the best she improvise with short notice.
Sally wants me dead the last thing she needs is to send a Samoan with her .38.
So color me worried 'bout 'er.
The Samoan could see my wheels turnin', I guess, so he whacked me once in the head.
"Easy," I said. "That's an expensive piece of hardware."
For Christmas she gave me a new hat, a dinosaur ornament, and a card filled with lies. I got her a .38 special.
When I woke up with the barrel of the .38 lodged in my right nostril I realized I pry shoulda taken that New Year's Cruise with Sally. She'd bought her boy an extra ticket anyhow, hadn't given mine away. Apparently that woulda been too much. Said she knew I needed a break and going on that cruise with 'em would prove we could still work together, we could still be friends. She said it'd mean the world to 'er Johnny.
Her and I made a decent team, but we sure in the hell don't make good friends, and the only thing I owe Johnny is precisely one cheap whiskey and one left hook, not in that order.
I ain't never been a very lucky guy anyhow.
Dad was a mean ol' lug liked to slap my mom around, and Mom liked taking it, 'til the day she didn't. She put five slugs into his brain and one into his balls. Then she reloaded and put five in his balls and one in his brain. Seems inefficient to me, but that's a thing I guess broads are known for. Kicked around foster homes 'fore endin' up with my uncle Sam, a hero cop turned two-bit hood turned cheap P.I. when he realized tailin' around rich wives of richer cuckolds could keep him in rye. I've never been a big drinker, so I can afford to be a little more discerning, thus my confusion at Sally's .38 makin' it's way from my nostril to my eye while I try blinkin' away my scotch hangover.
they improvised:
The hand holdin' the 38 was attached to the biggest lug I ever seen. Guy musta been Samoan or somethin'. Wasn't sure. So I asked him. "You Samoan?"
"Only sometimes," he said.
You're gonna wanna shut up," he said.
People are never up for a good conversation this early in the morning.
"You're crushin' my legs," I said.
"You're about to be dead," he replied, "so you just need to live with it for a bit."
"That ain't your .38."
I know Sally pretty well so I'm pretty sure this guy don't have her gun without being damn persuasive and I sure doubt she gave it to him for this.
Last New Years Day before she left with Johnny for good, Sally showed up drunk at the office. Collapsed at the doorway, crawled her way inside to my desk and before she passed out told me she I was all she thought about, that she was in love with me, that Johnny knew and couldn't handle it, but she was so in love with me that it scared her and she had to leave with Johnny to get away from it, to escape. A few months ago she came by to apologize, said she was mad I took her name down offa the office's masthead, said she wanted revenge and what she told me that day was the best she improvise with short notice.
Sally wants me dead the last thing she needs is to send a Samoan with her .38.
So color me worried 'bout 'er.
The Samoan could see my wheels turnin', I guess, so he whacked me once in the head.
"Easy," I said. "That's an expensive piece of hardware."
typetrigger serial 1: stars.
if i had to:
"I'd prefer to go dancing," she says, twirling the finger on her right hand deep into her red hair, her left holding a half-eaten long john from Jimmy Oh's (where we first met), bavarian cream filling dripping onto her jeans. She looks down, squints, and grabs at napkins, picking at gobs of sugary goo.
"Dancing is generally my preference," she says.
"You never dance in your videos," I say.
"American Idols don't dance," she says, "'cept that one faggy one with the hair. I forgot his name."
When I got to JO's for my weekly bear claw I was surprised to see that it had been taken over by American Idols, but I was unaware of just how large the group was, having only watched pieces of seasons one and four. I mostly hurried to the counter, 'cause I was running late, and I was motherfuckin' jonesin' for a motherfuckin' bear claw, having given up most forms of sugar nearly two years ago after the girl I lived with told me I was so fat I should put out a craigslist ad looking for a girl that "didn't care about ever fucking someone attractive."
The only other sugar I consume is in the form of many many handles of gin.
I asked the girl at the counter why they were so crowded. I wasn't used to the place being so crowded. It's a pretty good place to have a cry in the parking lot after I'm done eating breakfast.
She told me the owner sent 'em an email letting 'em know of a new support group setting up shop at the long tall tables on the left side, near the "Jimmy Oh's! Fuck yeah, Donuts!" mural.
the ancients:
She said the end of the email was filled with hieroglyphics and the whole thing kept making references to a prophecy set forth by "the ancients," and it mostly gave her a "really weird feeling" in her "boobs and shit," like when her roommate left a copy of "Chariots of the Gods" sitting around and she read it while "totally blitzed, plus I'd eaten, like, mad fuckin' cruellers, so I was spun the fuck out on sugar. But if I don't eat 'em, Jimmy throws 'em away and then homeless people hang around the dumpster all night, and that's my thinking spot."
This was around the dozenth time I'd asked her, "A support group for what?" and she said, "American fucking Idols, dude," which was Morrisette-ironic, because right then Clay fucking Aiken tripped and threw his Orange Zest Mochachino directly onto my khakis, which I wear to try and look more professional than everyone else that works in my shitty office.
i know your secret:
He let loose with a "Oh my Stars!" alongside a perfectly pitched falsetto "I'm so sorry," elongating the so into sooooooooo like someone pulled back on his record, slowing time into nothing but Aiken. He started to say something else, but instead sniffed, like he was about to cry (I would've expected that).
"It's okay, Clay Aiken," I said. "These are just my work khakis."
But he kept sniffing, like my dog when he looks for the bones he hid in the couch, or me, when I come home and realize my dog has been stuffing bones with raw meat on them into the couch. And then he got closer, smelling faintly of hair product, bronzer, and Mango-Delicious gum.
"I can smell you," he said.
If I were to make a list of the things I'd expect Clay Aiken to say after spilling his drink on me, "I can smell you," would pry be number eight.
So likely, but not likely enough that it didn't weird me out.
"Excuse me, Clay Aiken?" I said.
"I can smell you," he said, sniffing. "You smell like one of them."
I looked at the clerk. "Do I smell?" I asked.
"Like Orange Zest Mochachino," she said.
"Is that what you're smelling, Clay Aiken?" I asked.
He stopped. Locked eyes with me. I realized I'd yet to see him blink. Like a snake. Or a robot that never blinks.
"The Stars," he says, "they know your secret."
"I do too," he says.
"Okay, seriously," I say. "Fuck you, Clay Aiken.
"I'd prefer to go dancing," she says, twirling the finger on her right hand deep into her red hair, her left holding a half-eaten long john from Jimmy Oh's (where we first met), bavarian cream filling dripping onto her jeans. She looks down, squints, and grabs at napkins, picking at gobs of sugary goo.
"Dancing is generally my preference," she says.
"You never dance in your videos," I say.
"American Idols don't dance," she says, "'cept that one faggy one with the hair. I forgot his name."
When I got to JO's for my weekly bear claw I was surprised to see that it had been taken over by American Idols, but I was unaware of just how large the group was, having only watched pieces of seasons one and four. I mostly hurried to the counter, 'cause I was running late, and I was motherfuckin' jonesin' for a motherfuckin' bear claw, having given up most forms of sugar nearly two years ago after the girl I lived with told me I was so fat I should put out a craigslist ad looking for a girl that "didn't care about ever fucking someone attractive."
The only other sugar I consume is in the form of many many handles of gin.
I asked the girl at the counter why they were so crowded. I wasn't used to the place being so crowded. It's a pretty good place to have a cry in the parking lot after I'm done eating breakfast.
She told me the owner sent 'em an email letting 'em know of a new support group setting up shop at the long tall tables on the left side, near the "Jimmy Oh's! Fuck yeah, Donuts!" mural.
the ancients:
She said the end of the email was filled with hieroglyphics and the whole thing kept making references to a prophecy set forth by "the ancients," and it mostly gave her a "really weird feeling" in her "boobs and shit," like when her roommate left a copy of "Chariots of the Gods" sitting around and she read it while "totally blitzed, plus I'd eaten, like, mad fuckin' cruellers, so I was spun the fuck out on sugar. But if I don't eat 'em, Jimmy throws 'em away and then homeless people hang around the dumpster all night, and that's my thinking spot."
This was around the dozenth time I'd asked her, "A support group for what?" and she said, "American fucking Idols, dude," which was Morrisette-ironic, because right then Clay fucking Aiken tripped and threw his Orange Zest Mochachino directly onto my khakis, which I wear to try and look more professional than everyone else that works in my shitty office.
i know your secret:
He let loose with a "Oh my Stars!" alongside a perfectly pitched falsetto "I'm so sorry," elongating the so into sooooooooo like someone pulled back on his record, slowing time into nothing but Aiken. He started to say something else, but instead sniffed, like he was about to cry (I would've expected that).
"It's okay, Clay Aiken," I said. "These are just my work khakis."
But he kept sniffing, like my dog when he looks for the bones he hid in the couch, or me, when I come home and realize my dog has been stuffing bones with raw meat on them into the couch. And then he got closer, smelling faintly of hair product, bronzer, and Mango-Delicious gum.
"I can smell you," he said.
If I were to make a list of the things I'd expect Clay Aiken to say after spilling his drink on me, "I can smell you," would pry be number eight.
So likely, but not likely enough that it didn't weird me out.
"Excuse me, Clay Aiken?" I said.
"I can smell you," he said, sniffing. "You smell like one of them."
I looked at the clerk. "Do I smell?" I asked.
"Like Orange Zest Mochachino," she said.
"Is that what you're smelling, Clay Aiken?" I asked.
He stopped. Locked eyes with me. I realized I'd yet to see him blink. Like a snake. Or a robot that never blinks.
"The Stars," he says, "they know your secret."
"I do too," he says.
"Okay, seriously," I say. "Fuck you, Clay Aiken.
8.30.2010
years from now.
Years from now,
they will all say,
we should've seen this coming.
He was always so quiet.
He was always so intense.
Years from now,
you will all say,
we should've known.
We should've spoken up.
We could've warned people,
that this boy
this one, presumably ordinary person
this man
he keeps his pimp hand strong.
they will all say,
we should've seen this coming.
He was always so quiet.
He was always so intense.
Years from now,
you will all say,
we should've known.
We should've spoken up.
We could've warned people,
that this boy
this one, presumably ordinary person
this man
he keeps his pimp hand strong.
typetriggers, aug 22 - aug 29.
while i was out:
When I ran out for dog food, per-her-request, she changed her hair, meaning to surprise me with the expensive red dye she'd found on sale at the corner salon, the day she had shaggy layers cut into her bangs. The goal was to wait for me to walk in and shout, "It's a whole new me for you!"
It took me longer than we expected.
So she re-did her makeup, heavier on the eyes, pulling back blacks from the blue-green pupil she turned brown with a colored lens she'd bought for Halloween two years ago, when she wanted to dress up as Jane Austin, and was obsessed with being 100 percent accurate, as though there were wandering Victorian-Figure-Costume judges giving out prizes downtown (when I made this joke, her eyes filled with tears).
She put on clothing she gathered from our neighbors, band t-shirts from the A&R girls that lived upstairs, had them give her a french manicure, wiping neon pink from her fingers and toes. She borrowed a razor blade and made her smile wider, bleached her teeth. Quit smoking, then started again, but this time menthols.
She changed her room and lowered her ears and threw out all her books and filled her shelves with new ones by authors I'd never heard of, even the ones her Dad gave her, just before he died and I had to drive her to the airport and hug her in smoky terminal bar. She reordered her Netflix queue and took up Cajun cooking and learned to laugh at all new kinds of jokes (the kinds I've never known how to tell).
When I got home, I was still me.
She was a whole new her for someone else.
false nostalgia:
the night air is warmer than it should be so i roll down the windows and as i drive by your apartment that old song clicks on the radio, and suddenly it’s years ago and she’s all i see, laughing, throwing her arms around my neck, kissing my cheek, and she whispers, and i say it’s not my fault, i loved her before i knew her, and upstairs in your bed she whispers, dreaming, and she rolls over and you wrap your arms around her but she does not say your name.
When I ran out for dog food, per-her-request, she changed her hair, meaning to surprise me with the expensive red dye she'd found on sale at the corner salon, the day she had shaggy layers cut into her bangs. The goal was to wait for me to walk in and shout, "It's a whole new me for you!"
It took me longer than we expected.
So she re-did her makeup, heavier on the eyes, pulling back blacks from the blue-green pupil she turned brown with a colored lens she'd bought for Halloween two years ago, when she wanted to dress up as Jane Austin, and was obsessed with being 100 percent accurate, as though there were wandering Victorian-Figure-Costume judges giving out prizes downtown (when I made this joke, her eyes filled with tears).
She put on clothing she gathered from our neighbors, band t-shirts from the A&R girls that lived upstairs, had them give her a french manicure, wiping neon pink from her fingers and toes. She borrowed a razor blade and made her smile wider, bleached her teeth. Quit smoking, then started again, but this time menthols.
She changed her room and lowered her ears and threw out all her books and filled her shelves with new ones by authors I'd never heard of, even the ones her Dad gave her, just before he died and I had to drive her to the airport and hug her in smoky terminal bar. She reordered her Netflix queue and took up Cajun cooking and learned to laugh at all new kinds of jokes (the kinds I've never known how to tell).
When I got home, I was still me.
She was a whole new her for someone else.
false nostalgia:
the night air is warmer than it should be so i roll down the windows and as i drive by your apartment that old song clicks on the radio, and suddenly it’s years ago and she’s all i see, laughing, throwing her arms around my neck, kissing my cheek, and she whispers, and i say it’s not my fault, i loved her before i knew her, and upstairs in your bed she whispers, dreaming, and she rolls over and you wrap your arms around her but she does not say your name.
7.14.2010
things i've learned recently, from hot chicks (and dudes, but mostly chicks) i know, and what my general opinion is, of the same subject:
- my hugs are pretty much an awesome turn-on.
- my hugs are not unlike being grappled by a large and desperate teddy bear - as in a fat stuffed animal with dead eyes that lacks emotions, personality, and genitalia.
- i smell good, like all the time.
- i smell like a general combination of orange cheetoe powder and sadness.
- i have "beautiful" teeth.
- my teeth have slowly been going crooked over the last year, they're yellow as fuck from 19 cups of coffee a day, and i have halitosis.
- my twitter game has been ON LOCK recently.
- well, okay.
- my consistent use of the word "darlin'" is "retro" and "neat."
- i'm a condescending sexist prick, my "country" affectations are more retarded than taylor swift, and someone is going to punch my throat.
- i'm super crazy awesome and it's weird that i haven't had more threesomes.
- i'm a lame fat dude that finds it necessary to make jokes to cover the fact that no one likes me, and my only involvement in threesomes ever is when the girl i was in love with had really loud sex with a skinny douchier version of me near my general vicinity.
- i get written about on blogs i don't follow or even know about, in a positive way.
- i'm more used to "i have started a blog and it's sole purpose is to talk shit about tim fucking davids."
- maybe none of y'all are out of my goddamn league.
6.22.2010
they say tomorrow's your birthday, we're gonna have a good time.
but we're celebrating today, and i am impatient.
here is something i have learned over my very short life thusfar -
the world is a mean and cruel place. people are ugly and usually sad. life is pretty hard.
but sometimes, if you're very, very lucky, right when you're about to give up on the whole thing, you can meet someone kind, and unnervingly intelligent, and unnecessarily funny, beautiful inside and out, and strong in the way you'd like to imagine all of our mothers, sisters, and daughters are. someone like becky.
she understands fully the nature of this world and chooses, quietly, to fight it the only way she knows how - she loves from her knees.
and, indeed, in case you didn't know, she's right - that's the only way to fight it.
so if you get a chance in the next few days, if you could do me a solid, and raise your glass for becky's birthday - whether you know her or not.
toast for her ('cause in a way, you'll be toasting for me, too).
here is something i have learned over my very short life thusfar -
the world is a mean and cruel place. people are ugly and usually sad. life is pretty hard.
but sometimes, if you're very, very lucky, right when you're about to give up on the whole thing, you can meet someone kind, and unnervingly intelligent, and unnecessarily funny, beautiful inside and out, and strong in the way you'd like to imagine all of our mothers, sisters, and daughters are. someone like becky.
she understands fully the nature of this world and chooses, quietly, to fight it the only way she knows how - she loves from her knees.
and, indeed, in case you didn't know, she's right - that's the only way to fight it.
so if you get a chance in the next few days, if you could do me a solid, and raise your glass for becky's birthday - whether you know her or not.
toast for her ('cause in a way, you'll be toasting for me, too).
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